Parhelion
by tripodion
Summary: They could never stay away from each other forever. The dark is coming again, and when you're card carrying members of the undead who have lived over five hundred years together, you know a thing or two about handling it.
1. The Return

_Karachi, Pakistan_

* * *

He had just come back from the local bazaar to find a package waiting on his stoop.

He unlocked the door, coming into the cool, airy home, a relief after such a hot and oppressive night. The visit had been uneventful – everyone in his local haunts had been either bonked on hookah, hash, or opium to give him the time of day, much less stand up. And to think he used to be worried about alcohol...it was like the goddamn 1890's again.

The parcel was heavy, wrapped in plain paper. As soon as he saw the familiar scrawl, he felt a pinch in his chest. He tossed his keys and sunglasses onto the foyer table, scrambling to get to his room and avoid toppling the towers of books and yellowed tomes around him as he tore open the seal and withdrew a large, flat disc.

 _A fucking 78…of course_.

He huffed, grateful that he had taken the all-in-one player with him. He ran a hand gently over the raised ridges of the vinyl record, a smile coming onto his face as he saw the label, written in the same hurried chickenscratch as his address.

 _For John_.

He put the record on and carefully set the needle down before laying out on the bed, closing his eyes. A beat – then the soft sound of violin filled his room, a generic wail, a classical prelude. It was an almost simple melody, lulling and pretty, but he wasn't to be fooled – Sherlock never did anything in halves, or deign to repeat himself. John knew if he even came close to comparing him to Mozart he'd throw a fit.

The hum of the violin bow shifted abruptly into a fast-paced plucking, sending his memories flying back to gaslights, dirty streets, crinolines. He almost smiled, but he knew to give a full critique he couldn't be compromised, so he reigned his attention back in, focusing in on every minute detail.

He could hear the exact sound of the strings as they vibrated against Sherlock's long fingers, could almost tell the scrape apart of his pads as he played. The echo of the wood was very fine; he was playing the Stradivarius then, 1712, a gift for his birthday. They had been in St Petersburg at the time, newly minted capital of Russia, and had used the plague at Vienna as a handy escape from questioning glances and aging friends. That had been the last straw for Bohemia; after they'd glutted themselves on the carnage of the Protestant's War or whatever they called it these days, they had gotten out of Central Europe on the double and hadn't looked back for nearly 150 years.

The plucking was fading away, becoming more resonant; cheeky git had fed the sound into an amplifier, then, or plugged it into one, however he did that. The sound of the violin became more stringent, noisy, edgier, and John found himself missing his husband, so lonely on the other end of the record.

The violin went back to its slow picking. There was a low moan underneath the violin, as if an electric guitar had been strummed then put on repeat; one of the Gibson's, but he'd never had a good feel for those kinds, all electric and plastic. He could hear the wood better.

He could lose himself in this kind of music, and as it rattled to a halt, he smiled.

 _Brilliant_.

* * *

 _Olympia, Washington_

* * *

She had just finished sewing up her newest arrival when the hair began to raise on the back of her neck. Slowly, recognizing the feeling, she snipped the plastic thread and set down the scalpel on the tray next to her, being sure to keep it near.

"What are you here for this time?" She asked without turning around.

"You love spoiling surprises, don't you?"

She closed her eyes at the familiar voice, deep and low, and spun around in her chair.

There he was: the tall man, his hair pulled back underneath the surgical cap, face hidden by the mask and a dark pair of sunglasses.

"What do you want?" She repeated, even though she knew. "We're out of A positive."

"Give me the usual, then."

She sighed, willing her shoulders not to droop so low, to keep some of her dignity intact. That voice did something to her, made her feel as if she had to listen, and if she were honest, she kind of wanted to. The allure, the mystery; it was hard to say no to someone like him. Underneath the mask, she could tell he was handsome and, well, if she was going to be alone for the rest of the night, company was always nice.

She walked out of the room, taking a sharp right into the breakroom across the hall. Crossing over to the minifridge, she grabbed the metal canister next to her takeout box and a dozen different condiments that no one in the lab ever used.

"Here," she said, coming back in. "It's O. But listen, if you're not busy, I—"

The canister was out of her hand in a moment, and before she had time to blink he was walking away, back down the hall. "Thank you, Molly. I will see you next time."

Dumbfounded, she watched him go, turning back to her work when she noticed a weight in her pocket. Reaching in, she pulled out a large wad of bills, banded together neatly. Willing her lip not to tremble, she shoved in back in.

She didn't know what she hated more: him, or the fact that she could never tell him no.

* * *

 _Kennedy, Washington_

* * *

He shrugged out of the scrubs as soon as he came into the house, despising the cheap fabric and its sterilized smell. Trudging up the stairs, he carefully folded them over his arm, knowing John would have a nagging aneurysm if they were left out.

John.

He must have gotten the record by now, but he hadn't called. It wasn't his longest, perhaps only an hour or so, and he didn't know what the hell else there was for John to do in Karachi, so what was the delay?

Huffing, he threw himself on the couch. The wind rattled at the old wood and timber; the cabin had seen better days, but he had wanted solitude, and he would have it at whatever price he wanted. It was perfect in its own way, far enough from people to not be tempted, but close enough to reach the hospital in Olympia on his food runs. And John would like it, with its cosy rugs, the stone fireplace, wooly throws and the eclectic décor, scrounged and sampled from the collection they had made together. The life they had had.

He didn't know why John was being so difficult about it – he'd love Washington; it would remind him of Scotland. But no, he was the one who insisted on that insipid trip to _Karachi_ of all godforsaken places, and who knows what the people ate there, and what he'd be eating in turn—

He was broken from his thoughts as a phone rang. Leaping up from his sulk, he nearly tripped over himself to get to the laptop, the laptop, where had he put the fucking laptop? Hurriedly clearing the coffee table of its used cups, books, detritus, he found it under an art book; Basquiat.

He opened it and laid back on the couch, taking in his partner's face as it filled the screen. He looked well. That was good, and terrible. How to get him to come home, to him? How to get him out of the desert and all its bones…

"Hello darling." John said. "Your handwriting is atrocious as ever."

"John." He answered, thinking, reaching around for his violin. "Always good to note your many criticisms."

"It's not a criticism, love, I'm just saying in five hundred years maybe you take a penmanship course once in a while."

Over on the other end of the world, John watched Sherlock smile, but he seemed distracted, absently tapping at his chin with his bow.

"I enjoyed the pizzicato."

"Mmm…of course you did."

"Of course I did," he repeated, smiling. "You do know what I like."

"Five centuries of penmanship sacrificed at your altar."

"Oh, don't be like that. I'm just teasing about the writing, you know that. How is it in beautiful Kennedy, Washington?"

"Gloomy, solitary."

"Just what the doctor ordered."

"Yes." He said, with a harsh screech of the violin. "He did."

There was a deep moment of silence, and John was nearly tempted to break it just to get rid of it.

"Have you gone into town, then?"

"Only when necessary. It's _hateful_. You'll never guess what the island nearby is called."

"Haven't the foggiest, love."

" _Anderson_."

John snickered.

"How is Pakistan? Enjoying your world tour?"

He sighed, knowing this would come eventually. "Sherlock, don't make me feel guilty about wanting to see more than our corner of the world."

"I can't _make_ you feel anything." _Unfortunately_.

"You know what I mean. I told you, it's only temporary."

"Temporary is too long, John."

Narrowing his eyes, John looked at his husband, supine on the couch, ready for an almighty sulk. But there was something else there, something he couldn't quite see. Something he thought he'd forgotten, but was becoming all too clear that it was only under the surface.

"How are you, sweetheart?" He asked softly.

"'Sweetheart'," Sherlock scoffed, "Honestly John, it's like your pet names never made it out of the Dark Ages."

"Well you weren't exactly around for that, were you?"

"Neither were you."

"Only just—don't speak back to your elders, young man."

He caught a hint of a smirk on Sherlock's face and seized on it.

"Are you—you know, are you feeling alright? Eating well?"

"Yes, mother. I'm eating fine."

"And the rest of it?"

Sherlock let out a long exhale, fingering at the violin. "It's getting dark again, without you here."

 _Shite_.

"I don't mean that as bait. I don't want you to come back out of guilt. But…"

"But.." John prodded.

"…I miss you."

"I miss you too, love."

"So _come back_."

"It's not that easy. You know what travel is like for us."

"You seemed to leave pretty quickly."

"Yeah, well you try staying in New York for that long. I can't believe we didn't starve."

"We were lucky for the healthy craze." Sherlock muttered, playing a quick _God Save the Queen_. John closed his eyes, knowing what he was going to say before he even thought about saying it.

"And…if I did? Come back, I mean. If I came to Kennedy –"

Sherlock sighed, setting down his violin and laying down again, crossing his hands over his stomach. "I don't want you to be my savior, John."

John chuckled. "It's a little late for that, love. Couple centuries too late."

"I mean it."

"I _know_." Eyeing his husband a little more closely – or as close as he could with the resolution – he frowned. "You're not…you're not _in_ the dark place, are you?"

"No." Sherlock answered, and John nearly sighed in relief, but he spoke again: "Not yet. But I can feel it coming. The wave."

John closed his eyes, breathing in slowly through his nose then out again. Although technically he had no use for it anymore, the motion calmed him, gave him a moment to think and consider what he was going to say.

"Alright." He said quietly. "Alright. I can't believe I'm doing this _again_ , but…I'll go."

He didn't miss the hope in Sherlock's eyes, and he felt rotten for putting it there and snuffing it out in the first place.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, wary. "You only just got to Karachi."

"After Istanbul and Tbilisi and Tehran. It's okay, Sherlock. These places will be here for a while yet."

"So will you."

"Yes. So will _we_."

* * *

 _Karachi, Pakistan_

* * *

John drummed his fingers nervously against the chair, waiting for the line to connect.

"Yes, hello? Hi, I'd like to book a flight to Seattle. From Karachi, yes." He ran a hand through his hair as the desk clerk read off the available times. "No, sorry, that's no good. It has to be a night flight. Yes, I'll wait."

He sorted through the pile of papers on his table, passports, money, travel documents, credit cards; a colorful array of past lives and present possibilities.

"A transfer in Tokyo? Perfect."

As he read off his information for the booking, he glanced over at the window, where he could just see the sea, churning under the moon. It made him think of Sherlock, the last time they were together. The moon hanging over Paris.

He hung up, and started to pack.

* * *

 _Kennedy, Washington_

* * *

"Beautiful." Sherlock hummed, touching his cheek against the fine wood of the sitar. "Gayaki style. Teak wood, seasoned for nearly a century. Mother of pearl inlay. An extraordinary find."

"No problem, Sherlock, really." Billy smiled, rubbing the back of his head. He could tell he made the boy nervous, but that was how he liked it. Nervous didn't ask questions. "Is there anything else I can get you? Anything you might need?"

"Now that you mentioned it – yes." He turned to look at Billy, little Billy Wiggins, all of 21 years old with nowhere to go but the local venue and the bar attached to it. "I need a bullet. _But_ it has to be made of a very dense, very particular wood, and encased in silver. Do you understand?"

"Uh…yeah, a dense wood like…pine, or something?"

He closed his eyes, brow furrowed in irritation. "No, not _pine_. Like Itin, _Prosopis kuntzei_ , Ironwood, _Krugiodendron ferreum_ , Blackwood, _Dalbergia melanoxylon_ , also known as ebony…"

"Wait, hold on man, alright, I have to write this down."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he snapped the locks on the case to the sitar. He hated repeating himself. The whole lot of them could _starve_. Interacting with them was like watching a cow chew cud, so lost and ignorant they couldn't even see what they were doing to themselves much less his kind much less the entire planet. They were all going to burn, burn, and take him with them, roasting in perpetuity because they were all too stupid to –

Right. The boy was still here.

"Do you have what you need?" He asked, voice pinched.

"Yeah, but this is… _really_ specific. What's it for? Just wondering."

He plucked at the strings, turning away. "Oh…just in case."

"In case of what?"

He turned to him and smiled, showing off his teeth.

"Vampires."

Billy laughed. "Want me to add a stake to the list too?"

He saw the boy out, giving him a larger sum than normal. His wide-eyed protestations had been genuine, however, and although humanity had long ago lost its ability to touch him with its atrocious sentiment, he felt a detached sort of pleasure that people like Billy still existed. He supposed he was fond of the boy, in a way. Happy to have someone around willing to do his errands for him, and bring him beautiful instruments to continue playing.

He stood in the doorway, watching as Billy's car left the driveway, and turned his face to the moon.

* * *

-/-

* * *

John hated flying. Really _hated_ it.

The man sitting across the aisle had caught his finger on the lid of the can as he opened it, and soon a brilliant red was pouring from its mortal confines. John couldn't help it – he zeroed in on the source, heard its call, smelled it, could damn near taste it.

A stewardess had come back with napkins, but the cheap paper did nothing to dampen the smell, and that was the worst part. Even though he had been sure to eat before leaving Karachi, he felt hunger pangs broil in his stomach, felt the tips of his teeth detach and lower as he leaned in close to –

No.

He forced himself back into his seat, turning away and hiding his mouth, willing his teeth to behave. He was stronger than…well, himself. But it wasn't _him_ , really, just a part of him. The part that always hungered, the part that feed into him and off of him, the darkness, the negative lifeforce. He began to tear away bits of napkin with his gloved hands, a gift from Sherlock before he had left. Their kind was particularly sensitive to touch, so insistent coverage was necessary, and Sherlock had chosen a lovely dark shade of soft leather, weather-resistant and flexible.

Just thinking about him made John feel calmer. He rested his head against the seat, closing his eyes against the bright overhead lights, glaring at him through his tinted sunglasses.

He opened his eyes, and willed himself to look at the moon. It wouldn't do if he'd made Sherlock wait all this time for nothing. Soon, they would be together. It was just a matter of patience.

* * *

 _-/-_

* * *

The driver had just set his things down on the curb when John saw it: movement in the upper floor window; the drawing back of a curtain.

"Are you sure you can carry these all the way up?" The man asked. "They're a little heavy."

"I'll be fine." He smiled. "Thank you for your trouble."

As the car drove away he hitched his things up. Narrowing his most-prized belongings hadn't been easy, but he had wanted to travel light, so two bags it was. He had scoured through his books at his place in Karachi, pouring over every one that caught his eye in case he might want to take it, not to mention his journals, his photographs, keepsakes from other lives. It had been hard, but it was worth it. He didn't want to delay now that he'd made his mind up.

The cabin was quite nice, quite old, and nestled far back in the lush misty mountains, away from prying eyes and nosey neighbors. It looked rather simple, not like Sherlock at all, but then again, he didn't seem to mind. There was a short, sparse yard and a small raised deck with a porch swing, looking for all the world like it had been tacked on in afterthought. The house itself looked tiny, perhaps only four or five rooms in total, and painted a rusty red – dried blood, John's mind pinged – with a homey buttercream colored door. A steep, short staircase ran up the side to the top floor, and he could just make out the living room through the front windows.

The moon was bright tonight, working its way to its peak. He stopped in the middle of the yard, crunching on dead leaves. There was music playing inside, and John knew it was Sherlock's. He could tell; by now it was in his bones; he was made of it.

The yellow door opened. Sherlock stepped down off the porch and John got a good look at his husband in the flesh for the first time in years.

He hadn't changed much – a relief, all told. John's biggest worry when he was away was that Sherlock wouldn't take care of himself, would forget to eat or worse, eat something poisoned. Yet here he was, tall and lean as ever, with the same spark in his eye and the same ridiculous mop of hair.

John didn't say anything as he stepped forward. They never did when they came back together. He held out his hands, open, but not reaching, and Sherlock met him in the middle, staring down at him as he took John's gloved hands in his own. Their height difference never really bothered him, although at times he did wish he were a little taller, if not to be so imposed upon all the time by the stupid git he called his husband. When he _loomed_ like a giant bat, that's what he had an issue with.

But he didn't care now. All the longing, the pent-up emotions, the silent, solitary nights he spent travelling with emptiness beside and in him, he felt it now. He'd missed the great idiot.

He smiled, still holding Sherlock's hands in his, caught between their chests. They were nearly nose to nose, standing alone in the blank, barren lawn, tangled in memories. It had been so long since they had touched like this, and he was remembering all the times before; Paris, New York, Vienna, Prague, Milan, Venice, London, London, London. Every caress, every kiss, every intimate whisper; all the time they had spent together, dwarfing the moments they had been apart. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his face, warm in the late summer night, and he knew it well – it was the same breath when he sighed, when he pouted, when he cried out, lost in ecstasy.

He drew away, looking up at the man he so loved, and had so missed. Wordlessly, he picked up one bag and Sherlock the other, taking them inside.

As he shut the door to the night, he looked around. They were in the living room, large and spacious, with a sunken den in the middle. To the left was a short hall with a ladder leading upwards on one side, ending in a tiny kitchen they'd never use. The rest of the room was taken up by the den, lined with instrument cases, stacks of notebooks, charts, reports, books, newspapers – anything Sherlock could get his hands on. An outdated television set was huddled on the far end, complete with rabbit ears. Sherlock had shot a smiley face into the wall immediately ahead, then spray painted over in in some kind of glittery gold paint.

"May I?" John asked, motioning to his gloves.

"Ever the model of propriety, John." Sherlock answered, and hearing his voice so clear and low sent a warm crawl to the base of his spine. He grasped John's hands in his larger ones, stripping off the leather and tossing them onto the coffee table. He lifted the newly exposed skin to his face and inhaled deeply; John couldn't help the bolt of arousal that shot through him – it was considered rude to scent another vampire, an invasion of personal decorum and conductivity. Perhaps that was the ancient chivalry in him; Sherlock had never been one for courtesy.

"My apologies, John. I know you don't much like that."

John smiled, touched at his attempt to at least play decent. "How do you know what I like?"

"Mmm…" He grinned, leaning closer. "I know what you like."

They met in the middle, a sweet kiss that made Shakespeare and Marlowe, Rumi and Whitman, bloom in his mind. The kiss of the tender, the aching, the unconstrained longing. He wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer, nearer. Sherlock took the hint – he always did – and drew his arms around him, pressing them together.

"Oh," He sighed against his husband's lips. His partner. His equal. "I missed you." He whispered.

"Three years," Sherlock mumbled back, running his hands along John's sides. "2 months, 21 days. 8 hours, 4 minutes, 20 seconds, 13 milliseconds. I didn't miss you, John. I mourned you. I _ached_ for you."

"I know, my love. I know." They broke apart, but John kept his hands on Sherlock's skin, letting their memories wash over them both. "Have you eaten yet?"

"I was waiting for you."

John chuckled, intertwining their hands. "Look at you. You've got manners now. And they said old dogs can't learn new tricks."

* * *

-/-

* * *

After they drank, they lay together. Sherlock had always enjoyed sex after a feeding, and John wasn't one to complain; if he was rougher than normal, if John's head spun a little more, if he cried out a little louder, who was around to care? No one minded them but the moon.

The stock that he had gotten from Olympia had been strong, heady. John could never come up with the words to describe the feeling – ridiculous, seeing as he was the writer between them – but it was a very potent, very fortified fine wine, dark and rich, and going immediately to their heads. It was more than an indulgence, it was euphoric, it was life, it was everything at is purest, and it felt _bloody fantastic_. You could tell the weaker blood from the better ones; it felt thin and watery, less substantial, and frankly put, the high wasn't as good.

Sherlock hadn't been able to wait for his fangs to ascend – he'd leapt on him, carrying John outside and up the stairs before he'd even had a chance to put his glass down. His bedroom upstairs was dark, but John had taken the opportunity to open the curtains, spilling moonlight into the room as he lay back on the soft pillows. Sherlock had stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, naked, staring at him. If he'd been a younger man, human even, he'd have covered himself up, but there was no need between them for that. They had always known each other, from the very first.

He loved John's throat. Vampires especially had a thing for them, for good reason; it was where the skin was thinnest and the blood loudest. Hot, smooth teeth bit at him, below his ears, his chin, at his shoulders; he gave as good as he got, but Sherlock possessed an otherworldly passion for necking, leaving faint smears of dried blood along his skin, licking them up in turn and grazing against the flesh with the ends of his fangs. He loved it, and he knew John loved it too.

Their physical absence had been felt keenly on both ends. Both were eager for the night to be over, but just begun as well. John had never been with anyone else for the past five hundred years, and he knew Sherlock had never even entertained or expected the idea of anyone, much less John himself. They had a rule: feed, but no fucking. Feeding was easy, and contrary to popular human notions, vampires were fairly monogamous. Now that didn't mean that they hadn't had adventures as a team with a little outside interference, no. In his wilder youth, Sherlock had been damn near insatiable, pulling down any willing participant he could find into their bed. In a way, John missed the experimental days, but he much preferred what they had now; they'd hightailed it out of France before the first revolution anyways, sick off of boozy, sugary blood that made them sluggish and lazy, and that had been that.

Even when he was away fighting in some war or another – and there was always a war to be had – John had been faithful. Sherlock would follow him, or he wouldn't, or they might choose somewhere together, but they understood implicitly that they were a team, and there would only ever be two.

God, he'd missed this. The connectivity, the instant rejoining. They were perfect, soulmates wasn't adequate for what they shared. Sherlock would lap at his neck, kiss him, wedge his thighs open with his knee, and it was unlike anything else; no blood high, no bite, no human, would ever match him, and he knew Sherlock felt the same, even if he didn't say it. He almost wished he could still bruise, just to see those marks in the mirror the next day and try to match them with his own palm.

Strictly speaking, vampires had no need for sex. Why would they? Their form of procreation was exceedingly intimate, but clinical. It was only ever a bite, only someone inflicting it on someone else. John had never turned anyone, but he suspected that Sherlock had; only guesses, certain ways he talked about things, when he talked about them, but he was never completely certain. It didn't matter much to him. Turning was often more of a mistake than a sign of intent; when one of their kin drained a human too far but didn't want them dead, they were turned. It had gotten harder to keep making those mistakes, as more and more of them battled for resources. Humans were getting muddied, and soon it would be hard enough to find good blood, let alone blood that wasn't poisonous already.

Their kind didn't bleed unless they'd feed recently, a fact that Sherlock used to his full advantage when they were in bed. He would worry at John's neck, making nips here and there, leaving marks that never lingered, but when they were lost to it and in the haze between reason and passion, he would sink his teeth into John and John would reply in kind, working and moving together until they were reduced to their bodies and nothing more. The wounds were never serious, and John loved the feeling of a doubled intrusion, being fucked and being bitten. Sometimes they shifted it around, and he knew Sherlock enjoyed it as well, but not on the same level; he was not as enthusiastically game for it.

Usually afterwards they would fall asleep, wrapped up together. They didn't necessarily need it, but sometimes they needed a respite, a biological crutch to fall back on while they recuperated. Sex was always intense after they'd been apart; once in Amsterdam after a long separation Sherlock had nearly ripped out his neck. No harm done, and John rather considered it the hottest sex of his life as well as his death, but it was one thing to have an otherworldly orgasm and quite another to have it ripped away from you and thrown into the next universe over.

John rose quickly, closing all of the curtains before the dawn came. He crawled back into bed, laying his hands on Sherlock's face; he was already asleep or passed out, lean arms coming up to wrap around his waist. Through the points where they touched John could sense he was dreaming, about a night in Romania they had shared nearly a century ago, and something about wood, a small piece of wood. He placed a kiss at the corner of his mouth, licking away a stray dot of blood, and nestled into him, welcoming sleep as they lay together in the muted, fading moonlight.


	2. Sun Dog

Before he opened his eyes, he knew John was there. John there, with him, where he should be, and he wrapped his arms tighter around him, placing a kiss at the nape of his neck, tasting the faintest trace of delectable iron.

He opened his eyes to survey the damage; John's neck was clean, but he could see traces of bite marks, punctured skin, the deeper, bleached purple pallor of the dead. He'd want to eat when he got up, but Sherlock couldn't be arsed at the moment to detach himself. Neither of them gave off body heat, but despite that there was a certain comfort in the two of them in bed, as if the memory of warmth lingered just by being together.

He'd never known John as a human, a fact he regretted when he thought about it. In all of his files, his reports, analysis, great and endless wings of memory he had dedicated to the man, there was that large blank space of his humanity, and it drove him mad sometimes to think that although he knew every other possible facet, he'd never know John in that context. They both weren't exactly candid about their past lives; he knew John had been bitten sometime during the ninth and last crusade, just outside of Aleppo, and something, the last of his blood in the sand, made him return again and again. He and the desert were as intertwined as he and Sherlock, two halves of a whole.

They'd met outside of London during a celebration for the King. John had been at court then, a minor player with nothing to do with himself, and Sherlock had just come out of the Low Country, rather aimless after siphoning off the blood of the Sack of The Hague. It had been simpler then: one could just disappear and everyone's mind went to the Inquisition. Though he and his kind were no saints, humanity's greatest enemy had always been itself.

It had been John who moved first; their kind could recognize one another anywhere.

The party had gathered at Hampton Court for a stag hunt. The men were kissing their wives goodbye, their servants loading their horses for the long weekend trip. The hounds had been howling, eager to be released into the autumn foliage and the quickly setting sun.

John had looked regal, sitting astride his horse as it stamped the ground. He had worn his hair in the style then, a little longer to the shoulders, and it paired beautifully with the color of the stallion he was riding, a deep, rich walnut. He'd had a beard too, one of the few times that Sherlock remembered him having one; he'd tried a ridiculous little moustache back during Victoria's Diamond Jubilee, but Sherlock had teased him so mercilessly that it hadn't stuck around long.

Sherlock had been an invited guest, masquerading as a Dutch official. When he and John looked at each other, he felt a low swoop in his gut that still sent a shiver up his spine when he thought of it; it had been the surmising appraisal of a predator caught in a momentary lull, bored and disinterested in playing with its food. John's glance had swept over him and he had smiled. Sherlock had nodded at him, tipping his hat as was custom, not only to the humans but to elders.

He had been loaned a horse the color of crushed black velvet, a gorgeous creature. As they followed the loosed dogs, he could feel the power of the animal, hear its heart work, its muscles tensing and flexing, gloriously alive as the ground rose up to meet its hard hooves. He no longer felt an ache after a long day's ride, but as he rode he felt a pain in his thighs, something foreign and unknown to him. The moon had been low that night, full and gravid, and he could feel its pull, the gravity of it as it reached for him.

When the hounds had abated, rejoining together to convene over a lost scent, the men set up camp, deep in a clearing of the dark wood. They built a fire, tall and high, but the roasting meat and flagons of wine did nothing for Sherlock's appetite. John's eyes were dark, reflecting the light as they stared at him over the flames. After a little while, when the men were well and drunk, he had excused himself to relieve himself out in the woods, but Sherlock knew better, and he quickly found him, teeth deep in a hare's neck, snapping the spinal cord.

"I didn't know you liked the taste of game."

"Not particularly." John had answered, handing him the warm body as a trickle of red ran down his chin. "But I can't very well have a five-course feast tonight, can I? I'd be dead drunk like the rest of them."

"No, I suppose not."

"What may I call you?"

"Sherlock," he said, spitting fur out of his mouth, savoring the loamy, damp taste of wild blood.

"Sherlock." John had hummed, and the man was struck by the sense that he wanted no one else to say his name the way John did. He'd still had a hint of his Scottish accent then, and the way John rolled the r had made his insides curl.

"And yourself? Do hare hunters have names?"

"John."

"John." He dropped the hare's body to the soft moss and forest floor. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"And to you as well, Sherlock."

John had stepped forward then, raising a gloved hand to wipe a droplet of blood from the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He'd watched as John drew it to his own and sucked it off his thumb, fangs just visible in the moonlight filtering in through the canopy. Although he had just eaten, he hungered.

Nothing had happened after that; they had rejoined the party one by one, though the rest of the men were passed out or close to it. The dogs had taken an interest in him the next day, sniffing at his hands, but he made a show of letting them lick chicken grease off his gloves, and no one was any wiser. The humans hardly noticed that neither he or John had eaten anything, but then again, they never noticed much at all.

The rest of the trip had been uneventful, he and John orbiting around one another, only sharing glances and small conversation, for there was only so much of themselves they could reveal in mixed company.

Then the hounds had caught scent of the stag, surrounding it in the wake of night, just before dawn. The leader of the party had the honors of striking the first blow, but aside from that it was impossible to tell man from dog, the frenzy whipping up clouds of dirt around the wounded animal as it let out the shrill call of the helpless and the dying. John told him later how he hated the sound, and thus rarely took invitations to hunt; he was merciful, and hunting for sport was contrary to his instincts. John was good and kind, and Sherlock could not say he felt the same sentiment when the stag was pierced through the heart and he scented its atomized blood and platelets in the air.

He had always been a hunter. There was a reason John had never turned anyone – he preferred to kill them quickly rather than make them suffer through a slow death or their transformation. But he had once loved it, fascinated with the blood, the slow leech of light, the difference between an open eye and an unseeing one. He did not torture overtly, but he would admit that in his time he'd most likely brought suffering to more than a few. He didn't like it about himself, he knew John didn't like it about him either, but in his earlier days he hadn't been able to help the morbid curiosity, and the knowledge that no one could stop him unless he wanted them to. It was a power trip, he could fancy himself judge, jury, and executioner, and he had enjoyed it. He could blame the monster inside him, but if were honest he the man had just as much a part in his experiments as the darkness did.

It affected him strongly though, especially the longer he was with John, who brought out more and more of the man in him than the beast. John reminded him of goodness, charity, morality, and he was forever indebted to him. But there were days – weeks, months – where the darkness consumed him, when he thought of stalking the streets once more, and he knew that returning to the life he once led would drive John away forever – an absolutely unpalatable thought – so he suppressed it, wallowing in self-loathing and antipathy until he managed to break free of the dark water that consumed him. John was as vital to his nature as the blood, and he was forever caught between the two; the light and the dark, the moon and the night.

After the stag had fallen, the men had gathered for a celebratory toast, although he saw nothing sporting in their kind of hunt, relying on hounds to do the work for them. As they poured out the wine, he glanced over and saw a sight that remained forever embedded into his mind: John, crouched over the fallen animal, his cloak shielding it from the others, dipping a finger into the wound in its neck and licking the fresh blood off, teeth fully extended.

It felt like an eclipse had come over him, blotting out the oncoming dawn. He had made some excuse or another to the party, and climbed on his horse, bolting at full speed back to the castle. The court members thought it some ridiculous Dutch custom, leaving a hunt so early after its conclusion, but he couldn't stand to stay a moment longer.

They hadn't wandered far from the palace, and just as he could see its towers cresting far away in the distance, he heard another horse come up behind him, though he only heard one pulse.

"Well that was a fine farewell." John said, pulling up beside him. He was irate – why irate?

"Don't fool yourself, John. I saw you take a taste the stag."

"And if I did?"

He whirled on the other man, his horse stamping the ground as he tightened the reins. He was a natural horseman, able to turn the animal as if he controlled it himself.

"They could have _seen_ you."

John eyed him, keeping a careful hold on his horse as it tossed its head. "I think not, Sherlock. I was being careful –"

He scoffed, if only to cover the warm puddle gathering in the base of his spine at the sound of his name. "You weren't being careful, you couldn't help yourself. And what would you have said if they saw you?"

"But they didn't see me." John started, bringing his horse to trot alongside Sherlock's. "I don't see the problem."

"What if I hadn't been able to control myself, John? What if there were _two_ blood-crazed vampires, sucking the life out of a 12-point stag? We'd kill them all, fine, or one would get away and tell the others if we didn't get him first. The court would be suspicious – two lone survivors of a gory bloodbath, one of them seeming a foreigner, and with no good alibi? _Think_ , John, think of our preservation."

"I was thinking. And I think you liked it."

"You complete dolt, I can't—what?"

John shrugged. "You heard me."

Sherlock fell quiet as they approached the back entrance to the palace grounds, silent at the hour. As they crossed the over fields towards the castle park, he could see the porter asleep in his box; so much for security.

They rode along the road between the brook and the walled park, the birds beginning to sing as the pink dawn approached against the receding violet night. They dismounted at the barn and handed the horses to the stableboys – with John looking so resplendent on his, it was almost a crime to see them go, but they continued on, walking down the lane towards the castle.

"Was I wrong?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock looked over at him, meeting his curious glance. He wasn't worried that he had offended him – he was concerned that he had been incorrect. John was proud of his instincts, and he didn't want them to be wrong.

"No." He answered.

They walked along the canal towards the palace, its calm water running smooth and soft beside them, birds roosting on the surface. He stopped under an oak, turning to John.

"The sun's coming soon." John said, stroking at his beard, the fine blonde hairs. "We need to get inside."

"I know."

Wordlessly, he reached up and stripped his gloves off, pocketing them. John had swallowed at the sight of his pale hands, looking up at him in alarm.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't answer, holding his hand out, palm up as if he were begging for alms. John seemed to understand. He reached up, not bothering to take his gloves off, and took Sherlock's hand in his, turning it over and bringing it to his lips in a chaste kiss.

As soon as their skin touched, he knew. He knew this was it, he'd known since he'd laid eyes on him, sitting on that horse, the two of them so puissant and blonde. He could feel the years John had spent in dormancy, waiting for him. The blood in his mouth from his first taste, the smell of iridescent iron, steel, hot from the sun, the new blood, the frenzy of battle. Loneliness, exile. John's teeth brushed against the back of his hand and he could sense the power of the man behind them.

In turn, John felt the same. A frizzle of electricity jolted him, and he welcomed Sherlock in, overcome by his nature, the intelligence, the brilliance, the clever determination that stripped the locks he had placed around him for centuries in an instant. It all happened in one moment, the kiss of deference to an offered hand, but it had been all they needed.

John had taken him back to his quarters, a small room vacated by a minister's trip abroad. He'd drawn the thick, plush curtains, knowing that it would be hours yet before party returned and they were expected. Sherlock had sat on the bed as if he had done so for years, unlacing his fine deerskin breeches and shaking off his boots. John uncapped a pewter skein, pouring them each a small sip of blood.

"A toast." He said, handing Sherlock his glass and sitting beside him. "To good fortune."

"To good fortune." Sherlock agreed.

They had two weddings; the official and the unofficial. The Covenant of England recognized their partnership, and they were bound in a private ceremony, attended only by the civil officer and their sole witness, Sherlock's brother Mycroft, an aide de camp to Cromwell at the time. The unofficial ceremony they conducted themselves, out in the backwoods of Hampton Court, where they had met.

Neither had taken marriage lightly; it meant something different for their kind than it did for humans. The bond laid down by the Covenant tied them by blood and body, ensuring their connection anywhere across the globe. Their powers heightened, and allowed them to communicate not quite telepathically, but empathetically; they could sense generally how the other was feeling, unless it was deliberately kept from them. On the other hand, if the couple wasn't as well-matched as they had assumed, it was hell on earth. Vampire marriages gone wrong had caused a great number of human casualties, and more than a few cities, lost to fire and mysterious illness. They had wed before the Covenant had put a strict registry quota in place, escaping the almost militant scrutiny of the trial engagement.

Sherlock had never even considered that he might one day be someone's spouse. He had considered himself perfectly happy alone, apart from everyone. John had changed that.

He sighed, drawing himself up out of memory. He touched John's cheek, letting his fingers graze his bones and slack muscle. John had been a gift – he was still a gift. In all their years together he had never wanted to consider what might have become of him if they had never met, if he'd gone somewhere other than London after he left the Academy at Leiden, if John had not come to court. It was the same logic John had used with the stag; why think about it if it wasn't true?

But sometimes that was all he could do. Thinking was his greatest strength. If they had never met, he would have gone on reaping humanity for its finest souls, draining and using every person he could find, until he was either caught, killed, or starved by poisoned blood. John would have been worse off; he had a huge streak for guilt and self-punishment, and an even wider margin for danger. Sherlock didn't have to guess what would have happened to him: killed in battle, or by his own hand. He'd said as much before, of the decades after he'd been bitten spent in a vicious battle with himself, the loss of his humanity, hidden away in a self-imposed exile, wandering though the hills of Turkey, Hungary, Northern Italy. He knew John had a harder time coping with his immortality than he did; Sherlock had asked to be turned, and John had never had a choice.

As if he knew he was being thought of, John stirred. The sun had nearly set through the curtains, and the last rays caught at the ends of his hair, turning them to fields of wheat. Sherlock ran a hand through it, pressing his nose to his temple and inhaling deeply before getting up and stretching. If they were still human, he would be aching from the night before; John had matched his enthusiasm, and then some, one of the only good things, in his opinion, that came from their time apart, other than their reunion.

When John woke fully, Sherlock was sitting at the end of the bed, watching him. He held out a glass and John took it, raising it in a salute, his hair mussed and cowlicked.

"To good fortune."

Sherlock smiled. "To good fortune."

* * *

-/-

* * *

The night was full of clouds, billowing above them and stretching over the moon. Sherlock held out his hand, helping John over a fallen tree when he gasped, crouching on the mossy wood.

"Sherlock, look at this." He said, pointing to a wriggling yellow mass.

"Banana slug. _Ariolimax columbiana_."

They watched as it inched around, its feelers wobbling in the air.

"It's going closer to the _Amanita phalloides_. There, do you see them?"

"It's not going to eat them, John. Slugs may be generalists but they don't eat poison." He straightened up, taking in the quiet forest, the damp foliage and towering trees swallowing the sound. "Did you know their color changes with their diet?"

John hummed, taking his hand as they continued on. "Imagine if we did that. Snack on a spotty little git and come out in polka dots."

"It's an excellent means of camouflage; the yellower they are, the better they blend with the forest floor, and the more it gives off a toxic message to predators."

"You'd look good in yellow."

"Flattery gets you nowhere, John."

"Well Bess seemed to like seeing you in gold, didn't she?"

"She liked seeing everything in gold. And, as I recall, you were called to private chambers far more often; she did love blondes."

"Don't be jealous, she just wanted to win at a game of primero."

"I hardly think I'd be jealous of a woman who slathered her face in lead and vinegar over some irrelevant pox scars."

"Says the man who never ages, never takes ill, and has been beautiful his entire existence."

Sherlock tightened his hold on John's hand. The constant endearments and minor praise were different in person than over the phone; there was something realer to John's adoration when he was there, the two of them together. _He_ felt realer, more solid, less of the ghost he had once been.

The walked on, moving silently through the underbrush. The mountain was quiet, punctuated by the low call of the owls. John heard the sound of running water and led them towards the sound, coming out near a pool fed from a small creek. He could see fish dart around in the clear water, and leaned in closer to look.

"John. Don't move."

He froze, slowly bringing his eyes up. He'd heard it too, the low, quick sound of an elevated heartbeat. Glancing up through his lashes, he watched as a doe came to the edge of the water, slim pink tongue dipping into the pond as it drank.

"Do you hear it?" Sherlock asked, equally still. John concentrated, and heard another heartbeat, faint and muted.

"She's pregnant."

They watched her drink, and he could hear the water slide down her warm throat. She hadn't noticed them, her dark eyes darting up as she raised her head, scenting the air. Neither he or Sherlock had a smell anymore, and if they stayed still enough she would never know they were there.

He could hear the baby move in its suspended anima, and was filled with a sudden and overwhelming love. When he had been human, he had often thought of starting a family, having children, dying an old man surrounded by his wife, his family. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that it would never happen, would only ever be a fantasy, but sometimes he was reminded of who he had been, what that man had wanted, and it filled him with a cold sorrow, a mournful tenderness as he thought of the things he was robbed of, things he would never have.

He stood and the deer bolted. Sherlock lay a hand on the back of his neck, the cool leather rubbing against his nape.

"I had a dream about Harry." He said, turning to face his husband. Sherlock surveyed him for a moment, an unreadable, blank look on his face.

"I did too."

"She's looking for us, then."

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose so. Do you want her to find us?"

"I don't know. She's my sister - I mean, you know, not really – but apart from you she's the only one I've got."

There was a twitch in Sherlock's brow. "Have you forgotten Paris?"

"No," he said, because it was true – Harry had been abhorrent in Paris, lost to blood haze, wicked, immature, "but that was almost a century ago."

"I haven't forgotten." Sherlock said lowly, and John knew that the subject would have to wait a little while longer before he brought it up again.

Sherlock disappeared upstairs when they returned home, coming down in impeccable scrubs, as surgical mask hanging off his neck and a nurse's cap on his head, keeping those wild curls at bay.

"Do you want me to come with you?" John asked, lounging on the sofa in Sherlock's dressing gown as he flipped through a stack of records.

"No," Sherlock answered, leaning down to kiss his temple. "The coroner's assistant is used to it just being me. I think two would frighten her."

"Safe travels, love."

John picked out an album – Diahann Carrol – and put it on the record player. As the needle worked and the first song began, he surveyed the room. Cosy, very cosy. Sherlock had a grandmother's worth of throws lying about the room, some from their old apartment in London, others from Tehran, San Francisco, Nice. The stone fireplace was large and empty, but relatively clean, washed in a thin white paint spotted here and there with soot. He might start a fire, just for the ambiance…maybe throw down a blanket or two, put another record on. He may not have actively seduced anyone in the past couple decades, but some skills didn't need much practice…

He stopped when he put his hands in the pockets of the robe, feeling something small and circular. He drew it out, holding it to the light. A piece of wood? He looked closer, felt the density of the thing, and froze.

No – a bullet.

An immense feeling overcame him; it was hard to put into words. Anger, shock, fear. The gigantic wave that threatened to crash on his head at the thought of a life without Sherlock, a life that the man himself seemed all too willing to commit him to.

No, there would be nothing without him. He'd already learned that once, in Switzerland, not a century and a half ago, when Sherlock had been in the deepest black mood he'd ever seen, and made John watch as he threw himself off a waterfall, into the churning, rocky rapids below.

It could be for someone else; another vampire, crossing into his territory, or an old fight returning again. It could mean anything, and he didn't know where to start.

He must have sat there looking at the bullet for longer than he thought, because in the next moment Sherlock was coming in, back from the shopping.

"I've got the good stuff tonight, John—" He stopped, the smile falling from his face when John held the bullet in front of his face.

"Tell me you're having problems with one of the others. Tell me that."

Sherlock stared at him, his face blank, eyes glinting with a sharpness that told John all he needed to know, even before he said it, low and composed: "I don't see any of the others. I don't see anyone."

John shut his eyes. An image of the refrigerator suddenly came to him, culled from the recesses of Sherlock's thoughts.

He gave him a strong look and stood, striding over to the kitchen, opening the freezer door. The fridge had long ago been unplugged, as they usually were, and he dug a hand through the icebox, his stomach tightening as he felt the familiar weight and cool metal of a gun.

Walking slowly back to the den, he loaded the bullet into the chamber, coming around the sofa and Sherlock, who hadn't moved a muscle. John looked down at the gun, then held it out, pointed towards his own heart, so close he couldn't possibly miss.

Sherlock hissed, moving to snatch it away, but John was faster. He held it out of reach, and when the vampire moved to take it again, he threw it at him, hitting Sherlock square in the forehead.

"The safety is on." John huffed, sitting down on the sofa. "I'm just...just playing a _part_ in your story. Is that right?"

"John, you don't understand—"

"The hell I don't! I think of all people, _I_ understand _plenty_." He bit out, but he could see that Sherlock was not going to fight him. "We're partners, Sherlock, and you're making me feel like a bit player in your final act."

Sherlock said nothing.

"It...this isn't your final act, right?"

He was still silent staring at the nothingness between the ground and his shoes, and John felt his insides flee into a dark void, sent into freefall.

"Was this—was me coming back here supposed to be a goodbye?"

" _No_!" Sherlock exclaimed, head snapping up to look at him. "No. No, I don't think about it when you're here. When you're away...after a time, it's all I can concentrate on."

"I can't stay with you forever, Sherlock." He said softly, then amended himself at the sudden panicked expression on his husband's face, realizing what it must've sounded like. "I mean, I can't stay with you _here_. In one place. We can't go the rest of our lives under one roof forever; we'd drive each other mad. There's more to the world than just the two of us."

"I know." Sherlock conceded, and he sounded miserable. "It's not the same when you're not with me."

"We're bonded, Sherlock. I _am_ with you."

"That's not what I mean. The bond, phone calls, video…it's not the same. I can't feel you. You make everything quiet."

John sat next to him, laying a hand around his shoulder, bringing his head to rest on his chest.

"What…" Sherlock began, but left the end open, as if he didn't know how to continue.

"Ask me, love."

"Have you ever thought about it? Since we've met?"

There was a long silence, and Sherlock began to think he might've asked the exact wrong question in this situation, when John spoke.

"Yes."

"Was I with you?"

He could feel John move as he shook his head, thumb idly tracing soothing circles at his temple. "No."

"When?"

"Bergkirchen. Reichenbach. London, the third time, when you were in Berlin."

Sherlock took a moment, going through his mind to fit these places with their history. Military service had always affected John, no matter what war he was in. It took a great strength to not only enter a battlefield, not only to be surrounded by blood and bullets, the calls of the dying, but to act as a medic, to save the lives of soldiers as they bled out, all the while resisting his own nature to drain them dry himself.

John had never spoken to him of what he had seen during the last world war, in Germany. Sherlock rather suspected that he was withholding it not for his own sake, but to keep Sherlock from confirming his worst suspicions about the human race. The news had gotten out anyways, the secret death camps, the starvation, the genocide, but John had seen it firsthand, and he hadn't said a word about it, ever.

Reichenbach was different; a singular event in their lives. The end of the nineteenth century had not gone well for either of them. Sherlock, bored and arrogant, lost to addiction, and John, helpless to help him, battling his own darkness. They were, the two of them, processing the limits of their immortality, something that happened once or twice every few centuries, but which had aligned misfortunately in terrible symmetry. Sherlock had gotten into a fight with another vampire, and he had thought himself infallible, at the cost of nearly losing John, who had been forced to watch his descent as he became embroiled in an obsessive quest to prove himself, ending in the fall.

When John had discovered him alive in the water, he had gone into a frenzy. It had been one of the greatest events, in magnitude, of Sherlock's life. He'd watched, injured and immobile on the banks of the river, as his husband, his bonded, had not only torn their adversaries to shreds but utterly destroyed them. It had been terrible, and fascinating, as if he were staring at the sun in its moment of brightest glory, and even if he had been blinded, he would never forget the sight of it.

Paris was supposed to have helped, but it made everything worse. He had slipped out of his past skin, reviled at the creature he had become, disgusted by what it had cost him, and John, so that he could prove a useless point to an inconsequential enemy. Slowly, bit by bit, he had been bringing John out of the crush he had been under, riddled with guilt and self-hatred at the monster he had turned into, at his lack of control, which he had worked his entire existence on maintaining. Sherlock had suggested a trip, somewhere outside England or Switzerland, where John wouldn't be burdened by so many reminders. He'd chosen – foolishly, as it turned out – to go to Paris, where they had enjoyed themselves until Harry came along at the worst time possible, as was her norm.

Sherlock hated her. He hated that John had been saddled with such a loathsome burden, simply by fact of having the same sire. Harry was a child, young as a vampire and immature as a person. She had begged to be turned, and Sherlock suspected that that was the heart of the conflict between brother and sister. John resented the fact that his humanity had been stolen by the same being who willing gave the gift out as if it was out of generosity, whereas Harry saw him as being a cold fish, a downer, someone who's self-control was mistaken for prudishness.

After Paris, they had separated for a while. Sherlock had agreed to it, only adding one condition, that John not enlist in the upcoming war. He knew the man would try to find purpose in sanctioned bloodshed, but he wasn't going to risk putting him into combat; John was reckless when he was upset, and although it took a great deal to kill their kind, he didn't want to chance it.

He had gone to Vienna, spending his time socializing and integrating himself into the newest intellectual circles – he'd actually had a great bit of fun, strolling up and down the streets, playing chess, composing, debating at cafes. It had been just what he had needed to separate himself from his solitary frustrations, and, after all, genius needed an audience.

John had gone to Moscow. His letters to Sherlock at the time had been hopeful, but wary. He had known what was going on in the public consciousness in Russia, but stuck around for a few years, circling the dying imperial court and the high society fetes, going to underground meetings, consorting with the street smart and the strong as well as the upper crust and cultured. Sherlock had been optimistic, until the revolution came, turning quickly into all-out war, and Denikin began his march on the city. John had only gotten out by the skin of his teeth, and a little literally at that, as it turned out.

When his messages had stopped coming and his mail remained empty for weeks, Sherlock had gone to ground, hiding himself in his flat, obsessively trying to work at their connection. Their bond had been shut off, and he could find no logical reason for it other than John had been killed, by one of their own or by the army as a dissenter or a traitor; he still hesitated to think of those long and endless nights, too ill to eat so he would worry at his own wrist, sustaining himself in the interim. A fruitless and barren week went by and then he received a telegram, addressed to him from Warsaw and blank save for one word: Amsterdam. He'd bought the next overnight train ticket available, and spent the entire trip pacing up and down the corridors.

He hadn't been to Dutch country since he had left four hundred years ago. He had no present mind for the streets or the culture or its people; he'd only wanted to find John. Eventually, he tracked him down to a tiny apartment in Molensteeg, climbing in through an upstairs window when no one answered the door.

John had been terribly weak – he had gotten out of Moscow, but had to circle around the amassing White Army, traveling through the forests and field by night and sustaining himself off wild game, which they only ever used as a temporary deterrent. He had arrived, dazed and starving, in Warsaw, ordered the telegram to be sent, and collapsed in the train to Amsterdam, half dead and hidden in the luggage compartment.

Sherlock had never played nurse before, but he knew instinctually what to do. Taking an empty pewter canteen with him, he stalked the streets, quickly finding and baiting a young girl into a dark alley. He tasted her blood to be sure first, and she was clean, so he drank from her, filling the bottle as necessary and dropping her off, still alive, to be found in one of the pedestrian-heavy paths.

John had rebounded quickly, and enthusiastically. The sex that night had been an absolute frenzy. Sherlock had poured himself, weeks of frustration, stress, and worried sorrow, into him, and John had responded in kind. Their brush with true death had offered them a glimpse into an untenable reality, one that neither wanted to come true, and it had in turn energized them, pushed them into an adrenaline-fueled, passionate reawakening. Sherlock himself had been so lost to the feeling that he'd very nearly ripped John's throat out, attached so strongly to his neck by his teeth that he wasn't sure he could remove himself.

It had been – fortunately or not – what they had needed to get them back on track. They'd spent the rest of the decade or two out of the chaos of Europe, visiting friends, traveling. Their relationship returned in full; unwilling to be separated, they went everywhere together. That is, until Sherlock was strong-armed by his brother into going to Berlin to deal with a covenant crisis, and John had returned to London, just in time for the Blitz.

It had been miserable for the both of them: Sherlock, stuck in Berlin, surrounded by the worst dregs of humanity, the terrors of fascism, blind incompetence, and ignorance, and John, volunteering to pull bodies from the rubble, clearing streets on a night crew, slowly going mad from the constant blood before he'd finally had enough of sitting home alone in the dark listening to sirens and anguished screams, and enlisted again. Suicide by proxy.

Sherlock had been apoplectic when he found out. Mycroft hadn't even had the dignity to tell him himself, no, he'd discovered John's name on a leaked Nazi prisoner of war list. As far as he had known, John was safe and enduring in London, not being captured acting as a medical aide and reconnaissance spy to the Soviets in Kiev, much less being slated for execution in Germany for crimes against the Reich. Yet there his name was, in bold, plain letters. _Watson, John Hamish - P.O.W., Lamsdorf._

He had his brother pull every possible string to send in a paratrooper rescue, only to have it come to naught: John was gone. The captured officers reported that he had escaped in the night, a week or two prior, and conclusive interrogation had proven they had no knowledge of where he had escaped to.

He'd had no idea of John's whereabouts until the end of the war, when an American army official had placed a call to Whitehall reporting one John H. Watson, of the 5th Battalion of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers, had been recorded as a member of the liberating Allied forces at Dachau. When he'd arrived at the field camp near Bergkirchen, he was led to a large bonfire the troops had built in celebration, feeding the flames with swastika flags, fleeing officer's uniforms, broken furniture from the camp. He had looked across the fire, large and high, right into John's dark eyes, looking for all the world as if he'd been waiting for him.

John had never told him what'd he seen in the camps or what he'd witnessed as a prisoner of war, and he didn't have to. But he wasn't quite the same after that; the light didn't reach his eyes when he smiled, and Sherlock thought it the greatest of ironies, that after all the atrocity they had lived through, of all the human violence and cruelty, not to mention their own kind's, it had been this that would break him, the actions of soldiers following orders, atrocities flying under the banner of scientific inquiry. They knew that what John had seen, what had happened, was irrevocable, and nothing would be quite as it was before.

That wasn't to say that John didn't heal. It had taken time, endless hours squandered away in isolation, lying in bed, silent conversations held between them without saying a word. They'd damn near missed the entire 50's that way, together out of a warped necessity, shut away and dependent on one another to process the changing of the world.

"Do you think you would have? Done it, I mean." Sherlock asked, his nose pressed to the indent between John's collarbone.

"If you were there, no. It's the same for me, Sherlock. You must know that. It's the exact same."

For the first time in years, decades, perhaps since he had looked at John over that fire in Germany, so many centuries apart from their initial meeting yet somehow with the same feeling, he felt like crying. He felt crushed under John's weight, the heaviness of his seminal love and dedication. He felt terrible, a beast, for making John think he wanted to leave, separate the two of them forever, yet the darkness remained, lingering somewhere in the bony depths he couldn't touch, couldn't see, festering away in cruel gestation.

"I don't want to feel like this."

"I know, love."

"I don't want to leave you."

John said nothing, but kept rubbing those smooth circles into his temple.

"I hate them all. I do. You're the one good thing the human race has ever done."

He heard John laugh, a quick exhale through his nose. "I don't think that's quite true, darling. I'm one of many; I know it's hard to see that now."

"It's true, though."

"It's not. You think it's true, but it's not. What about Newton, hmm? Galileo, Planck, Pascal, Mendeleev, the Curies."

"All victims to human circumstance. If they had lived, they would've been the same men who created the bomb."

"That's circular reasoning, love. You hate that." John's hand moved to stroke his forehead, and he began thinking of the feel of sunshine, a warm wind, the songs of birds, laughter.

"Stop it, John."

"Just trying to help." John hummed, and though the images lessened, they didn't disappear, receding into an even flow in the back of his mind, washing at the edges. "Can you know for sure that these people would become what you think they would? Did you know them?"

"I may have…offered discrete advice to Mendeleev when we visited St. Petersburg."

"But you didn't know the man. All I'm saying is that…people, humans, they don't fit into the bodies we want them to. Are they our friends, or our enemies? We came from them, yet we're apart. We need them to survive, but they don't need us. They act as one, but are so different when you look closely. How do you reach all, when everyone is only concerned with themselves? It is a hard road to navigate."

He turned his head to look up at John, craning his neck. "Time goes too quickly, yet not fast enough."

"That's certainly true." John said, smiling at him.

"They're killing us, John."

"That may be an exaggeration, love. We'll do just fine yet. It's nothing so serious that we can't recover. Look at the beauty: art, music, the way the sun feels, the trees and the animals. Look at their endurance. They've survived, and so can we."

"Once ever to positivity."

"I'd say I'm more of a realist." John said, running his hand over Sherlock's cheek. "Do you feel better?"

He nodded, pressing his face into the touch.

"Good. Now, come on. Help me pick out another record."

* * *

-/-

* * *

He had promised to take John driving, so the next night they journeyed up through the winding hills and dark backroads. John rolled his window down, putting himself nearly halfway out of it, the wind brushing against his face, his hair, moonlight shining off his sunglasses. It brought a smile to Sherlock's face, watching the ridiculous man hang his head out of the car like a dog going on a ride.

They both valued their freedom; it was something essential to their natures. John hated being cooped up anywhere, unless it was of his own volition, and it wasn't hard to understand why he was so committed to having the ability to choose. He had chosen to leave, he had chosen to come back. He chose Sherlock, against all possibility.

The radio played classic oldies throughout the night; he didn't have any tapes of his own in the car, so they drove along to Orbison and The Platters, the fresh night air filling the silence. He pulled the car over somewhere along the bay and they sat on the hood, watching the dark water glitter, smooth and shining as the waves lulled in and out.

"Did you know," John asked, hand resting over Sherlock's as he lay his head in his lap, "that there is a planet somewhere in the ether between us and the universe that is absolutely smothered in diamonds?"

"No."

"It's there." He said, pointing up, tracing a constellation. "Right in the middle of Cancer. Twice the size of Earth, 40 lightyears away."

"I should have asked for a larger wedding ring, then."

John hummed, smiling as he turned to kiss Sherlock's gloved palm. "Maybe one day."

Somewhere nearby, a frog croaked. Birds roosted on the water, diving for fish and rustling the water from their feathers.

"I think about it, when things get dark." John said quietly. "That diamond suspended in the sky. How beautiful it must be. How we could never know if it's real or not. I think...that's what keeps me going. The possibility of it all."

"Maybe I can hang you up there too. Keep you where I can see you."

He could feel John roll his eyes.

"Yeah, and that'd go over great, wouldn't it? Give me ten minutes I'll be kicking so hard it'll knock us out of orbit. I'd like to stay where I am, thanks."

"I like thinking of the possibility of you. You're my diamond in space."

"That's quite romantic, love." John grinned, cracking an eye open. "Are you sure you're not a poet?"

Sherlock smiled down at him. "I've been known to write a verse or two in my time."

"In that handwriting of yours, I'm surprised anyone could read it-" John was cut off as Sherlock tumbled him off the hood, hitting the grass with a huff.

They spent the drive home in silence, John picking grass and dirt out of his hair from their impromptu romp in the moonlight before settling in across the seat, leaning into Sherlock's chest as he wrapped an arm around him. When they got back to the cabin, it was nearly dawn, the dormancy of the night broken by the sound of birds. As he got out of the car, Sherlock froze, holding a hand up to John before he could shut the door.

"I didn't leave those lights on." He said, looking across to him. John tilted his head a little, concentrating.

"That's your music playing."

Together, they quietly crossed the yard. Sherlock put himself ahead, knowing that an intruder would only expect one, not two. He pushed open the door, swiveling to the den as John followed.

His music was set at a blaring volume, the sound of an ambient guitar pulsing through the room, nearly rattling the windows. As he walked in further, he could see a pair of boots kicked off beside the sofa, a pair of long legs dangling off, tapping in time to the music. At the sound of the front door shutting, a head popped up.

Sherlock shut his eyes, and John gasped.

"Harry."


	3. The Circle

"Johnny!" Harry squealed, leaping off the couch to hug her brother.

"Harry—it's…good to see you." John replied, taking a moment to look at her; her blonde hair styled into a bob, eyes lined in thick winged eyeliner, a fashionable shaggy shrug jacket thrown over her thin frame. She looked exactly the same as ever.

"Were you expecting me?"

"The dreams, yeah. We knew you were looking for us."

"Cool, it worked!" She beamed, turning to Sherlock. "May I?" She asked, wiggling her gloved hands, held out as if he would take them off for her.

He glanced at John, then turned away, going to turn off the music.

"Is this your new place, then?" She asked, flopping down into Sherlock's chair.

"It is at the moment – well, it's Sherlock's anyways."

She sighed, scrunching up her nose. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Harry." John warned, sitting on the sofa. "So…how long do you think you'll be here?"

"Not sure." Harry hummed. "I don't suppose there's much to do but catch up with you and Dracula over there. The three of us, together again."

"No." Sherlock said, giving her a hard glare as he sat beside John. "Absolutely not. You're not staying here."

"Sherlock," John cut in over Harry's protestations, "It has been 87 years." He ran a hand up Sherlock's neck, squeezing his leathered palm against the tensed muscle.

"Are you still mad about Paris?" Harry asked incredulously. "Still? John, are you still mad?"

Sherlock was silent, still staring at her, his jaw clenched, and John sighed.

"What? I'm just asking! A girl has a right to know about her brother's well-being. Speaking of, do you have anything to eat? I'm famished."

"I'll get it." Sherlock said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Harry's eyes glinted. "Can I see where you keep it?"

"No." He and John said at the same time.

"Harry," John began, "what are you doing here? I thought you liked L.A."

"L.A. is boring, John, and besides, I'd much rather hang out with my big brother."

"L.A. is full of soulless dregs, I'm surprised you weren't right at home." Sherlock said dryly, handing her a glass and sitting down beside John.

Harry glared at him, and John squeezed his knee lightly.

"Think what you will, Sherlock, but at least L.A. has something fun to do at night." Harry sniffed, then knocked back the entire glass in one shot.

"Easy, Harry –" John started, watching her head fall back to the chair in bliss, fangs extending at the taste.

"Let her choke on it." Sherlock muttered, and John shot him a narrowed look.

"That's good stuff." Harry slurred, coming up out of her haze. "What is it, O?"

"O Negative."

"Fantastic. Can I have another?"

"You just ate."

"She's hungry, Sherlock." John cut in. "One more won't hurt. But just one more, understand?"

Harry nodded, eagerly holding out her glass for Sherlock to fill from the pewter canteen.

"So, what have you both been up to?" Harry asked, relaxing against the arm chair.

"We've been busy since Paris." John said calmly, not broaching the subject but leaving it open for apology she might have. He brought his thumb against the nape of Sherlock's neck, brushing the soft hairs in a soothing circle.

"I'll say – here I am thinking I'm a world traveler when you've got me beat by miles! I mean, I thought you were in Morocco last I heard; I didn't think I'd have to project myself all the way over to bloody Pakistan! Really, John, you couldn't have picked some place better? Without so many flies?"

Sherlock nearly smirked; they agreed on one thing, it seemed.

"I happen to like Pakistan." John said defensively. "I think it's a beautiful country."

"Yeah, when you're not bursting into spontaneous combustion from the heat I bet the scenery's quite lovely." Harry snickered.

"I'm going to bed." Sherlock announced, standing as he gathered the glasses and the canteen.

"Are you really?" Harry said, glancing up at him. "I'd like a teensy bit more before you go."

"No, Harriet."

"Just a teensy, itty bitty bit more? John said—"

Sherlock frowned at her. "John said no. I'm going to bed. Don't touch my records."

He strode off down the hall and John could hear the clinking of glasses as he laid them in the sink. With a click of the door and a faint rustle of air, he was gone.

"Off to hide in his coffin, then?"

"Come off it Harry, you know how he is. Paris—"

"Paris was ages ago, John! It was, like, nearly a bloody century! Is he still mad?"

"Yes, he's still mad. Truth be told, I'm not too pleased either."

"You sound like mother." Harry said, rolling her eyes.

John stood, hands clenching.

"You don't know anything about our mother, Harry, so I suggest you let it lie."

"But—"

"Let. It. Lie." He said, staring at her hard for a moment.

"Okay, sorry." She muttered, chastened.

"Thank you. I am still…happy to see you. I guess you'll be taking the sofa, then?"

-/-

He was startled awake by a knock at the door. The room was engulfed in darkness, blackout curtains blocking any trace of sunlight.

"Wazzit?" He mumbled, tucked against Sherlock's chest as his long fingers played with his hair.

"Harry." Sherlock said lowly. "Our morning wake-up call."

"John?" Harry called quietly, opening the door and popping her head in. "Wakey wakey. You've been having a lie-in forever."

John groaned, rolling over to look at the clock. "It's only past six, Harry."

"It's long enough! Come on, the night's wasting!" She said, leaping up into bed with them, jumping around for a few moments before bounding off again, hurrying outside and down the stairs.

"I hate her." Sherlock sighed.

"Oi," John said, burrowing further into the junction of his neck, "none of that now."

"Is sororicide still in fashion?"

"It was never in fashion." John mumbled. "Not even in the Dark Ages."

Sherlock hummed. "One can dream."

He glanced over at their side table, the canteen and the two empty glasses. "She drank a lot of blood last night."

"I know." John sighed, yawning. "I couldn't tell her no. She's been travelling…you know how that fries us out."

"She only needs as much as we do, John."

"It'll be okay, love. She'll be on her way soon. She never stays long."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

-/-

"So what do you do?" Harry asked, flipping through records in her nightgown. Her fangs had just begun to ascend, poking through her lip after her morning meal.

"What do you mean?" John said as he lay back against Sherlock, lying supine on the couch, an arm wrapped around John's chest.

"For fun, to pass the time, what is there to bloody do around here?"

"You're too young to know." Sherlock muttered and John elbowed him in the ribs.

"Other than that, which I do not want to know any more about, thank you. Do you guys go out?"

"Well, we went on a drive yesterday…" John offered.

"Oh, a drive?" Harry rolled her eyes. "A drive sounds great. God, you two are so fucking boring."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"Not if I have anything to say about it. Sherlock, do you even take him anywhere?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Let's go out," Harry huffed, throwing herself into the plush armchair. "Let's bloody go somewhere – come on, you two are like old nans!"

"I wouldn't mind seeing the town."

Harry pounced. "Yeah! Let's go see some music, catch a show or something!"

"We are not catching a show." Sherlock said lowly. "Think of something else."

-/-

They caught a show. A local band, nothing too ostentatious. Billy met them at the bar, beer in hand, and they sat at a table in the corner, far enough away for privacy, all three wearing sunglasses to hide their eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm really glad you could make it out tonight." Billy beamed. "I mean, this is wonderful, truly."

"Thank you, Billy, that's nice to hear." Sherlock replied, although it looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon. "This is my partner, John."

"Nice to meet you. Billy, Billy Wiggins, hi." He held out his hand towards John, who looked down at it for a moment, then took it, gloves still on.

"A pleasure to meet you, Billy." He smiled. "This is my sister, Harriet."

"It's Harry." She corrected, shooting John a look one would reserve for their father. She stepped forward, taking Billy's hand in hers, bare.

Sherlock squeezed John's leg under the table, but the moment passed without interruption.

"Can I get you guys a drink or anything? I'm afraid it's all domestic but it's not too bad."

"No need," Harry announced, pulling out a flask. "I brought my own." She took a deep swig, ignoring the pointed looks from across the table.

"Harriet, where did you—" Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"I'll have some of that." He said, leaning forward and taking a long sip, passing it to Sherlock, who took a hesitant drink.

"Can I try it?" Billy asked, watching Harry take the flask back.

"Sure," she smiled, "why not?"

"No." Sherlock interjected, quickly swiping it from her hand before he realized Billy could see it, but he just laughed.

"I didn't know you did sleight of hand man, that's cool."

"Just a cheap trick." Sherlock muttered, pocketing the flask.

"So how do you know Sherlock, Billy?" Harry asked, eyes half-lidded as she smiled at him. Sherlock tensed – if she kept her mouth shut, he wouldn't be able to see her teeth.

"Uh, it was a pretty random meeting, just one of those things, you know? I was driving a backroad round midnight and I saw him pulled over with his hood up, so I stopped to help him."

"Really?" John asked, turning to look at Sherlock.

"Mmm…engine overheated."

"Yeah, it was a really old model, like my grandfather's kind of car. Anyways, he was playing this great music so we got to talking; I knew some people in town and I ended up helping him find some rare instruments. And we went from there."

"Will you excuse us for a second?" John asked, taking Sherlock's arm as he got up from the table, dragging him through the bar and out the fire exit in the back.

They came out in a narrow alley between the bar and the next shop over, the bartender leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette.

"Leave." John said, and the man obeyed, flicking the butt and going back inside without protest. John whirled on Sherlock, frowning. "You were going to drink that boy? Just there in the street?"

Sherlock swallowed. John couldn't see his eyes through his sunglasses but he knew he had closed them. "John, it's not –"

"Don't tell me I'm wrong, Sherlock Holmes. I know you. You were laying bait."

When Sherlock did not defend himself, but looked at his shoes, John knew he was correct.

"You bloody idiot!" He hissed, shoving at his shoulder. "What if someone had seen you? What if Billy had people looking for him?"

"I had a plan, John. Do give me some credit. Haven't when been here before?"

John paused, brow crinkling. "When?"

"The stag."

"That was an animal, for Christ's sake! Billy is a human being – I know you know the difference between the two. You knew this was wrong, and if you didn't care about it, you knew at the very least I'd be upset. We don't do this anymore. Times have changed."

"I was going to do it that night." Sherlock said quietly, and for a moment John wasn't sure he had heard right. He started at his husband, eyes shielded by the black lenses. "I thought…if it was my last meal, I may as well treat myself."

"No—you…you couldn't have done it that night. You said Billy gave you the bullet. You didn't have it before."

"There are other ways, John. Surely you know that. The bullet was just a failsafe."

He barely ducked as John's fist flew at him, striking the brick wall and leaving a dent in the rock.

"You—you—" But John seemed at a loss for words, pressing his face in the heel of his palms, striding around in a quick circle.

"I thought I was going to die on the train to Amsterdam." He said quietly into his arms. "Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember."

"I thought—this was it. It could never get worse. I thought about you, and how I couldn't do anything to stop myself from leaving. I thought about how stupid I was to go to Russia – knowing what was happening – and staying anyways. I thought about how I'd failed you, how you'd be all alone, because of the choices I'd made and the mistake of my actions. I wanted to talk to you, tell you I was sorry, give you some sort of closure before I went, but I was too weak to use the bond."

John looked up at him, standing silently against the wall, head tilted back as if it couldn't support his own weight.

"You weren't weak that night. You weren't dying when you drove out there, parked the car, put the hood up. What'd you do, gun the gas pedal until it overheated?"

Sherlock didn't answer; a fine trickle of dust fell from the crumbled brick where John had broken it.

"You knew that was your last night on earth, and you didn't tell me. All our time together, all the centuries we've spent, the bond, our marriage…and you didn't tell me."

"John—" Sherlock reached out his hand to lay it on John's shoulder, but he shirked away.

"Don't touch me. Not now." John snapped before he took a deep breath through his nose. "You were going to leave, and kept me in the dark. What do you think I would've done?"

"You're strong, John."

John let out a ghost of a laugh. "I don't feel strong right now. I wouldn't have then, either. When the bond's shut off, you assume the worst. I would've come here, months too late, and found out what happened to you. And you know what I would've done? I would have followed."

Sherlock sucked in a breath. He had wanted to believe that John would endure, he would survive; he had placed a great deal of investment in the idea that John was strong without him. He had twisted facts to suit theories, and hearing evidence to the contrary made it all unwind in a low, trembling thread in the pit of his stomach.

"I don't want to live in a world that doesn't include you." John continued softly. "That doesn't mean I haven't considered it; watching everything pass us by, the patterns, the endless path of nature that we can't change…humans have done terrible things, and so have we. It's hard to live with that, and to see it happen over and over. But I never thought about leaving you without telling you why. It never got to the point after we met where I wouldn't have told you about what I was doing. We promised to be in this together, and you shut me out."

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said quietly. "I am, I have always been…a selfish person. I want the things that I want, at whatever price it comes to. I saw you, and I had to have you, so I did. You left, and I felt lonely, so I made you come back. I wanted out, so I found a way. Do you know what stopped me?"

John shrugged aimlessly, "Witnesses, maybe. Two cars to handle."

"No. I had already planned for that. I didn't do it because I felt you through the bond. You were in Tehran, at Roudaki Hall, watching the orchestra. You were happy, and you wanted me to be there with you, and I wasn't because of my own selfishness. I made you witness the beauty of the world alone. That's what made me stop; you. Not the thought, but the presence. That's always what makes me stop."

"You would've liked the violinist." John murmured. "She was very good."

"I don't doubt that."

John sucked in his cheeks, thinking for a moment. "What are we going to do about the bullet?"

"Lock it away and forget about it forever."

He chuckled. "I think you of all people know the dangers of saying forever. There's always going to be a day when it seems like a better alternative."

A moment of silence passed between them.

"Do you remember when I asked you to marry me, the first time?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course."

"I hadn't been able to wait, just asked you right there. I'm not one for patience."

"No, you're not."

Sherlock smiled a little, fondly. "You told me no."

"I did. The foot of the Tower with the heads of Catherine Howard's lovers on spikes could hardly qualify as romantic."

"I think commitment in the face of betrayal has a certain romance to it, and we did have an audience—"

"Sherlock."

"Right. Well, you told me no. I couldn't figure out why at first, but the more I thought about it, I came to the conclusion that you didn't want to marry me because you saw yourself as a burden. I told you as much, although in hindsight it was a mistake to ask you again in the next breath."

He stepped forward, holding John at the crooks of his elbows. "I have never seen you as a burden, John. You are always, and continue to be, the greatest and most precious thing. You keep me human, you remind me of what it means to live with selflessness and kindness, with compassion for others. I may not act on those feelings, but they are there, and it's all due to you. I was never a good man; I'm selfish, condescending, I rarely think of others, I have a superiority complex the width of the Thames…but you make me want to be good. I've always been grateful for that."

"Sherlock…" John shut his eyes, fisting the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. "How can I stay mad when you say these things? Honestly…"

"I've been told by a very reliable source that I have the soul of a poet."

"Yeah, you might want to get your ears checked."

Sherlock smiled. "Are we...good?"

"I'm still mad." John admitted. "But we'll get through it. You're not off the hook, though."

"I would be a fool to think otherwise." He answered, leaning forward to kiss John in the middle of the forehead, wrapping his arms around him.

When they went back into the bar, Harry and Billy were gone, empty beer bottle still on the table. John glanced at his husband, then broke away to circle around the small bar, glancing in dark corners and knocking on the one bathroom door. Sherlock strode outside, if only to confirm his worst suspicions.

After a moment, the door to the bar opened, and John came up beside him, staring at the empty parking space.

"She took the car."

-/-

The taxi dropped them off at the foot of the driveway. John had gripped Sherlock's hand so tightly that he thought he might have broken the bones if he could have.

As the car came to a stop, John bolted out, leaving Sherlock behind to pay for once. He couldn't see any lights on inside the cabin, slowing to a stop as he strode up towards the lawn, turning to Sherlock quizzically.

"Where's the car?" He asked, looking around as if it might be hidden somewhere in the bare grass.

But the other man had remained at the bottom of the sloping hill, looking in the opposite direction as the taxi drove off down the mountain.

"Sherlock?"

"Lights, there." He said, pointing in the distance. "Two beams, stationary." He looked down at John, eyes glinting in the weak moonlight. "Headlights."

John could see them at a distance, burrowed in the thick trees of the forest. They set off down the road, breaking through the underbrush. As they got closer, John could hear music, blaring from the inside of the car, its doors left wide open, left in park. The brake lights were still on.

He glanced into the car; it was Sherlock's, his driving gloves still in the console. It looked as it normally did, save for the absence of its driver and, most likely, its passenger too. The white rabbit's paw dangled from its keychain, still hooked into the ignition. John disconnected it, handing them to Sherlock as he turned to scan the forest.

The woods were still. He concentrated, listening to the birds in their nests, the wind through the trees, the quiet of the night.

"John." Sherlock's voice, from behind the car. He had popped the trunk, looking at whatever was inside. John rounded the car to join him.

"Jesus."

Sherlock reached in, pulling out a blood-soaked rag. He sniffed at it carefully, bringing it to his face and touching his tongue to the stain. "Not our supply." He concluded.

"Do you know his blood type?"

Sherlock shook his head, dropping the rag back into the trunk as he peered into the car, scanning the seat cushions, running his hands under the seats. He popped the dash, reaching in and pulling out a familiar object.

"That's your gun." John breathed. "You didn't–"

"No." Sherlock shook his head, checking the chamber, still loaded with the one bullet. "Harry must have taken it in her coat, put it there when we weren't watching. She planned this, John."

"Harry, I know her, she wouldn't–"

"Wouldn't what? Find someone to use and then dump them off somewhere remote, with a guarantee of protection if she couldn't handle them? Yes, she would. She's been using people for the past century, even before she was turned. Remember Paris? Remember when she got here? She asked us where we kept the blood. She was using us, because we let her."

"Using me, you mean."

"Yes. I was…trying to be kind."

John turned his head, scanning the horizon.

"Do you hear that?" He asked, tilting his head. Sherlock froze.

"That's my music."

-/-

The sound of a crazed violin rent the air through the open door as they slowly came up the driveway. All of the lights in the cabin had been turned on.

As they stepped into the den, John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him, going ramrod straight. The place was a mess – broken records, shattered guitars, busted amplifiers tossed and bullied over. Someone was laying on the sofa, head turned away, but they didn't have to see it to know it was Billy. His shirt was unbuttoned, twin gashes on the side of his neck still sluggishly oozing blood from a rapidly purpling wound.

"She drank Billy." Sherlock said tonelessly.

"I'm sorry, love." John laid a hand on his shoulder. "He seemed like a nice person."

"She drank him."

"I know. We need to find her."

Sherlock looked away, his mind already racing through the scenario. Harry took the car, and Billy willingly went with her, flirting, hoping for sex. She missed the entrance to the cabin, but swerved off the road for privacy; she'd fed on him then, probably killed him in the car, tried to mop up some excess blood so she didn't spill and ruin the upholstery, an oddly considerate thing for her to do. She carried his body back while they found the car, inebriated with the alcohol content of his blood; she put a record on – his record – and then gone somewhere to sleep it off.

John crouched over Billy's body, feeling for a pulse that was no longer there. Sherlock stormed upstairs, throwing the door open as the breezy air rushed in. Their bed was empty, looking as it had when they woke up. He crossed the room towards the closed bathroom door, opening it. The shower curtain was drawn around the tub, and he yanked it back, freezing at the sight.

Harry lay in the empty bath, blood streaked down her front, her head resting against the back. She looked as if she were passed out, but he knew it wasn't possible, not with the foot-long stake buried in her chest, leaking a thick, tar-like blood.

Fear – true fear – jolted through him as he ran from the room, towards the stairs.

"John!" He called, barreling through the door into the cool night. "John, he's not dead! He's not dead—"

The gunshot sounded as he reached the last step.


	4. Diamond Dust

**Warning: not for the sqeamish; violence and gore.**

-/-

Change can happen quickly.

When a human was turned, the change could take hours, or even days. His had been merciful; he had transformed in thirty minutes flat. John's had not – seven hours, writhing, dying, alone in the hot sand. No matter the length, it left its subject abject and bereft, single-mindedly focused on the consumption of live blood, and the feeling never really went away, even if they controlled it completely.

Things could shift in increments. During the time they were apart, he would fall slowly down the spiral, inch by inch he would slip. It would begin the same, full of potential and possibility, rapidly dwindling into frustrated dead ends, hair-pulling boredom, total apathy. The color leeched from the world. Everything became tasteless.

Theories could be altered. Before he had met John, he had assumed he would walk through his life and afterlife alone, forever. That had changed the moment they looked at each other.

His theory that the world was uncaring was fallible. And as he reached the bottom step, about to throw open the door, just as the bullet sounded – he changed his mind.

He had been wrong; Harry had taken the car to the forest, that had been true, but when she bit him, Billy must have struggled, further lodging her teeth into his artery. The blood would have come fast, too fast, and Harry was never good at thinking things through. Her reflexes would kick in, and she held him tighter, pumping venom into his bloodstream as it raced to an adrenaline-fueled heart.

She'd thought he was dead, wiped away the blood, took the body back to the house. He must have changed quickly, and caught her unawares; in the brief moment he'd seen it, Sherlock had recognized the stake, the neck of his 1909 Gibson. There had been a fight – brief – and Billy had killed her, in self-defense or out of blood thirst or both, and hid her body in the shower.

The lights had been off when they arrived; he had collapsed on the couch or he had been waiting for them. Impossible to tell without further inquiry, and all investigation was voided at the moment, pushed back and replaced by raw, unadulterated fear.

He had been wrong: he did not want to die. He wanted to live, with John, wherever he wanted to go. If John wanted to drag him off to the most remote corner of the globe, he wouldn't argue. He wanted to be with him, forever, as long as possible. He was a fool for thinking otherwise, for considering for even one moment that he didn't want to see John, his smile, his laughter, fight with him, bicker over petty things, hold him close, feel him nearby.

He had been telling the truth earlier. John was the most precious thing, the greatest culmination of the efforts of the world, from the primordial cells multiplying in the brackish, gaseous pockets of water at the very beginning, to the moment of his birth and the start of his afterlife there in the desert, to the official at Hampton Court who dripped red wax onto an invitation to join a stag hunt, everything had been working in favor of Sherlock Holmes, the gears of the world turning, moving them into alignment. And he had forsaken them all, and fate would have its blood one way or the other.

He opened the door, not half of a second after the trigger had been pulled, and the bullet sent spiraling through the air. The sound wave had not even reached the doorway.

John was at the threshold to the kitchen, the cheap fluorescent lights over the stove illuminating the room in a low glow. He looked up at Sherlock, overwhelmed surprise in his eyes. A wisp of smoke rose from his shoulder.

He could see it as if he were witness: John had been heading upstairs, his back turned, in clear view of the couch on the living room. Billy was looking over at them, his head propped on the sofa's back, dark, deep purple circles under his eyes. He held a gun limply in his hand – Sherlock's – taken from the back of John's jeans.

"No!"

Sherlock didn't think – he reacted, snatching one of the knives on the counter from its holder, appearing behind the couch in the next instant, burying it to the hilt at the hollow of Billy's neck as the new vampire pawed weakly at his arm. It wouldn't kill him outright, but the silver would poison him slowly, keep him immobile. He snatched the gun from his hand and tossed it down the hall, though it was useless now.

John wobbled on his legs, unsteady after the sudden impart of velocity through a stationary object. Billy had shot from below the waist, upwards. The bullet would have embedded itself near the bone of his scapula.

Sherlock caught him before he could fall, laying him down on the cold linoleum.

"John, John," he touched his face, glancing down to the hole burst through his shoulder; he did not want to call it luck, but if it had been one inch lower to the right, it would have gone through his heart, and he would be dead, irrevocably. Thick, nearly coagulated blood oozed from the wound like syrup; it had been hours since John had properly eaten, and once the blood in his system was gone, there would be no chance to save him.

He slid across the floor, hastily opening the fridge, reaching into the crisper drawer. He grabbed at the tall container, opening the lid, but feeling its light weight and already knowing with a horrifying certainty: empty. In her warm welcome and by filching some to take to the bar, Harry had drained it all.

"Goddammit!" He threw the canister against the wall, punching a hole through the thin plaster.

Where to look? Billy was taken care of for the moment, but his blood was no good, even with the silver infection. Their kind could not drink from each other for sustenance—he patted at his coat, remembering the weight against his breast, and pulled out the flask, shaking it a little.

Going to his knees next to John, he brushed his hair back before uncapping the container and upturning it towards John's mouth. A thin, measly stream hit his slackened tongue and he tried to swallow around it, but there was barely a capful. John gasped as Sherlock reached under his arms, raising him to sit upright against the counter. He'd have to apologize later. He could hear Billy gurgling in the living room, the faint sizzle of burnt flesh that gave off no smell.

The bullet would have been painful enough, the wood splintering through the solid bone and muscle, severely impacting their natural healing rate. They may not feel pain as humans did, but the silver casing would ensure a slow, horrible poisoning if the wood missed its mark. A failsafe, Sherlock had said, and he hated himself.

John was dying, there on their kitchen floor, and it was all because he had made a mistake, because he had let himself succumb to a darker call without thinking it through. What good was he? John was always going on about his mind, how fantastic it was, how brilliant, but what good could it be, placing so much importance on a brain that didn't even think?

"Sherlock…" John said weakly. He turned to him, the brightness in his eyes dulling as he nodded towards the back door, still flung open to the night. He raised an arm, pointing weakly.

He looked. There, in the yard, just beyond the stairs and sloping down towards the road, was a stag. It sniffed at the lawn, heart pounding dully, monotonously, as it scrounged for its dinner. He could hear the blood pass through it, running to the tips of its ears, its legs, its belly. It was a strong animal, compact and lean. It would do.

He was on it in an instant; the animal had no time to cry out, to run, to realize what was happening. Sherlock bit into its neck, through the fine, thick pelt and into the muscle, piercing the artery. It kicked out, trying to buck him, but he held on tightly.

It was his first live kill in over a hundred years. He loved it and he hated it, the struggle between life and death, the will of the creature, the essential fight to eat or be eaten. Rich blood poured into his mouth and spilled down his throat in a hot cascade, salty, metallic, beautiful. The stag was healthy; he could taste it.

He grabbed the animal around the neck and hauled its weakly struggling body into the kitchen, laying it beside John as it twitched. Blood splattered onto the linoleum as the stag lashed out madly, the desperate furor of a last chance at survival, clattering its hooves against the counter. He put an arm across its neck, pinning it down, and caught a stray kick to the stomach, just near his solar plexus. He reeled from the sensation, hands moving to its jaw, snapping the animal's neck cleanly.

He dragged John into his lap, his back to his chest, shirt covered in still warm deer blood. He stuck two fingers into the open wound on the animal's neck, its eyes staring blindly upwards, and pressed them into John's mouth, willing him to at least lick at it. But John did nothing, his tongue lax, and Sherlock felt another jolt of overwhelming panic crash over him, desperation spiraling into his gut as the great void that had threatened his entire life split open below him.

Swallowing was a voluntary act. He had to get John to swallow; taking his other hand, he ran his fingers lightly down his throat, massaging the smooth muscle, and it worked – John latched at the taste, working the lifeblood down his throat, his teeth scraping at Sherlock's skin.

"Good John, you're doing good. I'm here." He said lowly, voice trembling as he brushed back John's soft ash-blonde hair. "I'm here. I love you. I don't want you to leave. I'm sorry. Don't leave, John. Don't leave…" He leaned down, pressing his forehead against John's, feeling a static energy gather at the touch.

The feeling was wrong - so wrong. When they touched, John was vibrant, a multichromatic symphony, crackling at the edges like electricity, zipping through his nerves. Better than a seven percent solution, better than sunlight, better than the moon rising low and heavy in the sky. John was worth the wound, the suffering, worth the pain that life on earth brought to him. They weren't finished yet. Five hundred years hadn't been long enough.

John cleaned off the blood on his fingers, biting at the pads of his hands. The room smelled of deer urine and wild blood, the fluids puddling under the cheap fluorescents. A cold wind blew through the open door.

He reached down to cup the pooling blood, lifting it to John's mouth as he stroked his jaw, urging him to let go of his fingers. In times of bodily crisis, their kind became single-minded, consumed by thirst. Their conscious minds took a backseat to biological urges, and as he removed his hand from John's mouth, he could see it covered in puncture wounds from where his teeth had dug in, searching for sustenance.

Suddenly there were hands pulling him up from behind, throwing him bodily into the wall. He crashed through layers of insulating and framing, smacking against the ancient water heater. He scrambled up, watching from afar as John rolled over from where he'd been unceremoniously dumped, drawn to the slow stream of blood at the stag's neck. Billy stood over him, silver knife pulled from a gaping wound in his throat, holding it above his head, about to strike. Removing competition for resources.

Sherlock launched himself at him as he brought the blade down, ramming him into the fridge. He felt a sharp pain along his arm, but ignored it, grabbing either end of Billy's shirt, inches away from snarling, warped face of a creature out of its mind with bloodlust. Using the leverage, he lifted him off his feet, throwing him through the open door and crashing out into the yard. The kitchen was too small – he had to get him away from John.

Billy collided with the trunk of a tree, sending a large crack through the air. Sherlock was on him in an instant, catching him before he hit the ground and sending him into another tree. The longer he stayed off his feet, the more damage he took, the less of a threat he'd be. But young vampires were as strong as they were reckless; nothing mattered but the blood, and their tolerance for pain was astronomical. Words were useless as well – there was no reasoning with a creature who had lost the very notion of it.

Before Billy could recover, he dashed into the kitchen, snatching the silver knife up from beside John, still hunched over the dead stag. When he went back out in the yard, Billy was gone, nowhere to be seen.

Nowhere on the ground, at least.

He turned, looking upwards, and a body collided with him, leaping off the roof as it drove him into the dirt. He slashed out with the knife, catching the other vampire across the throat.

Billy hissed, moving to retreat, but feinted, clutching at his neck with one hand and lashing out with the other, his nails piercing Sherlock's cheek as the knife fell from his grip. Blood dripped down onto his face, the silver residue in it singeing his skin. He lashed out at any part he could reach, scraping his hands against the long wound at Billy's throat, digging into the stab wounds, peeling away at as much of the cold flesh as he could reach.

Wrapping his legs around Billy's calves, he steadied his grip and then flipped them over, groping for the knife beside him. Billy was faster, finding the handle and stabbing out blindly, burying the blade in Sherlock's thigh. He shouted at the sudden, searing pain, falling back to pull out the knife, deeply embedded into his leg.

Billy took advantage of the momentum to kick out, catching Sherlock square in the chest, flying out to the other side of the yard.

He collapsed on the lawn, finding the hilt of the knife and pulling the blade out as quickly as he could. He rolled his head over to look at the open doorway, the porch door hanging almost off its hinges. He could see John, lying there, hand limply wrapped around the stag's neck.

Heaving himself up on unsteady elbows, he slowly began to crawl back towards the house before two hands wrapped around his ankles, dragging him back as he had hoped they would. It was a mistake to grip an opponent in a spot where they still had availability of motion.

He swung out to the right, pivoting at the waist and slicing the knife through Billy's ankle, severing the tendon. The vampire cried out, wobbling on his remaining good leg, and threw Sherlock away and into the side of the house.

As he hit the wall, sliding down to the deck, he saw a blurred shape thrown towards Billy; the body of the stag. The sudden heavy body of the animal bowled him over, and the scent of congealing blood filled the cool air.

Overcome by the smell, Billy turned his attention to the corpse. Sherlock watched weakly, unable to move from the immense burning sensation in his thigh, as John stumbled from the kitchen, incredibly pale, his front soaked in blood, with a bevy of knives in hand.

As Billy fed, John hobbled towards him. Sherlock could still make out the headlights of his car in the darkened distance; it had been a lifetime since they'd found it, since they'd argued behind the bar, since his biggest problem was Harry knicking blood.

There was an otherworldly wail as John struck, burying a large carving knife in Billy's remaining ankle, splitting through the bone and into the ground. He did the same with the other foot, pinning his body to the earth with a sharp paring knife.

As the vampire struggled against the silver, twisting around to pull the blades out, John grabbed his hand at the wrist, snapping it cleanly, staking it into the earth with another knife. He then stabbed him through the back of his other hand, piercing it clean through and rotating the handle so the tendons tore with it. When Billy was finally immobile, unable to remove his limbs from their constraints, John took Sherlock's gun from his pocket, pointed it at his heart, and fired.

Sherlock was barely able to keep his eyes open, but he startled at the noise. One of the last things he had expected would've been for John, dying on the kitchen floor, to dig the bullet out from his shoulder, and use it again, but that was John to the core, wasn't it? Always the tone of surprise.

Through his half-lidded eyes, he watched as Billy gave a final twitch, then lay still, his blank gaze meeting the stag's. John turned away from him, soaking red in the moonlight, and looked at Sherlock for a moment, as if he had forgotten he was there. Staggering forward, he braced a hand against the deck railing, pulling himself up the stairs.

"You…are you alright?" He asked weakly, leaning against the wall of the house as he stared down at his husband.

"I've been better." Sherlock whispered back. The pain in his thigh was at a roaring inferno, unbearable. He'd wish John had the strength to cut it off.

"We have to…the sunlight…dawn's coming." John breathed, panting as he clutched at his shoulder, leaking with the wild blood of the stag. Sherlock felt a pang in his chest, an alien pain that had nothing to do with his own wounds and more to do with the fact that John's didn't seem to be healing.

He nodded, but made no move to stand. He didn't think he could.

John seemed to understand and reached down, hauling him back from under his arms as he dragged the two of them back into the house. He laid Sherlock out on the linoleum, and he felt cold, thickened blood seep into his hair. Turning his head, he touched his tongue to the floor. It was delicious, dignity be damned.

John pawed at the curtains with bloody palms, drawing them shut over the broken door. He stumbled forward, collapsing at Sherlock's side as he sat with his back against the counter. He leaned forward, reaching out with a shaking hand as he dipped his fingers in the blood, swirling them around. Bringing them up to Sherlock's mouth, he smeared the dark liquid against his lips. Sherlock responded in kind, mimicking the motion as he brought a hand behind John's neck to lower his head down. Just as they had four centuries ago, on the eve of the funeral for Queen Mary I, they sealed the ceremony with a kiss, passing the blood and the essence of life between them.

Sherlock felt stars burst behind his eyes. It could have been the dehydration, the hunger pangs, but he knew it was John behind it all, as he had always been. He licked into his husband's mouth, scraping their teeth together, and John bit lightly on his lip, allowing the red cells and platelets to drip into his blood stream. He drew him closer, wrapping an arm around John's waist as he crawled further up his body, half settling into his lap.

He dipped his hand clumsily into the cold pool, bringing it up to smear against their faces. It was disgusting, revolting, enthralling, this ultimate act of hedonism: bathing in blood. But they fed, together, giving and taking from one another in great swipes of tongue and teeth.

There was still a chance that it wouldn't work. Many of their kind had died for less. John had been shot through and poisoned; Sherlock had been stabbed deeply near a major artery. Animal blood was a meal substitute, not as sustaining as human, not nearly as fully bodied, but it was better than nothing. John would be dead if they had had nothing.

Sherlock clutched him tighter, pressing himself into him. John was everything. It had always been dangerous to say that, but it had been true. John gave his life purpose, made the nights richer, the moon fuller, ever since he had shown up on that beautiful walnut horse, full of power and strength. Sherlock was as drawn to him as metal to the core of the earth, the lonely rock orbiting the planet in the nothingness of space. They were immutable, immiscible, two parts of one whole. Separation was not an option, not since their first ceremony, not since their bond, and the only reason they had gone through with it at all was because Sherlock had had to spend decades convincing John that he was absolutely certain that he wanted to be not only never apart from him, but a part of him, irrevocably.

John was no burden; he was the anchor. He needed him around; it was fact. Plants required water, humans required oxygen, Sherlock required John, John required Sherlock. They had been together longer than they had been apart, for Sherlock at least, and they knew that their existence as separate individuals ended with a period, no second chances, no ellipses necessary. There was nothing but the continuum.

He brought the last handful of blood between them, allowing John to have his fill, expecting him to finish it off entirely; his wounds were worse, he required more. John drank some, then covered Sherlock's hand with his own, pushing it back towards him.

"No, John," rasped. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can." John answered, fixing him with that familiar look, the one that told him there would be no opportunity to compromise. Sherlock didn't argue – he drank the rest, licking the residue off his fingers.

"God, it smells like deer piss in here." John muttered, head falling against the cabinet. "We're never going to get the smell out."

"Let's move then." Sherlock replied, yawning, nudging closer into John's chest. "I don't want to live here any longer anyways."

"Sounds good to me." John whispered, a red-streaked hand running through Sherlock's hair.

"John, I–I'm sorry about Harry."

He was silent for a moment. "She didn't make it, then?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"We should torch this place." John said finally. "There's enough blood spilt here as it is."

"Where do you want to go?"

"I've always liked Morocco…" He said weakly, "but you wouldn't do well in the desert."

"What about London? We haven't been there in a while."

"London…" John hummed, but didn't elaborate.

"Or Scotland. We could go back to your home. I'm sure no one would remember you. It's been…what, seven hundred years or so."

He felt John chuckle, heard the vibration in his chest.

"I've always fancied Edinburgh. Haven't been since the Jacobite uprising. Do you remember, John? You were in Hajnice at the time. You did so admire Frederick the Great…of course, he admired you too, he benefited quite a lot from your knowledge of Pultowa, didn't he?"

John didn't answer. Sherlock glanced up at him: his head rested against the counter, mouth slightly open, the ends of his fangs just pointing through. His eyes were closed.

Sherlock raised his hand, wiping a trail of blood from John's mouth with his thumb. Gathering the droplet, he swiped it over the wound the bullet had left, rubbing it into the marred flesh, observing the damage up close. If they lived, it would scar.

He kissed the torn fabric over the wound, pressing his nose to the hollow of John's neck, whispering an apology into the cold skin.

The sun would be rising soon. There was no way to know if either of them would live to see it. He could feel the threads of their bond waver like a wind passing through a spider's web, as strong and resilient as ever. Yet his thigh ached, pinched in an unyielding scorch of irate nerves and destroyed tissue. It was a good sign that he had been talking; perhaps if he kept on long enough he could watch as John's eyes opened, that smile rise on his face, better than sunlight.

He didn't know what waited on the other side. Immortals did not often think of what came after because it always seemed so far away. He hoped they lived through the night. He hoped he would see John again, wherever that may be.

"The fire time I saw you was on top of that horse." He began. "Do you remember? You looked wonderful, John, like you'd been riding for centuries…I suppose by then you had been. I watched you drink from the stag, and I knew, I was sure that I had been waiting for you. I asked you, do hare hunters have names, and you laughed, and I wanted to keep making you laugh forever. And I promised you forever, John, and you said I can never say that word because it means too much, but here I am anyways, saying it, and you aren't stopping me. So, forever, for however long that actually is…yes…forever…"

He started talking, and he didn't stop. In case John did die, in case he followed him, he wanted to fill his ear with their memories so he might remember them, wherever he may go. Their time in England, their bonding, the flight to Spain, France, Russia. The adventures that had found them in every corner of the earth; the blue jewel they'd found in a trussed-up turkey in Romania, the engineer in Chicago who'd lost a thumb, the red-headed league in Dublin, the scandal in Bohemia. He recounted all of their stories, detail by detail, in perfect if sluggish clarity.

Their first wedding, in London. The second, in Oia – Apanomeria, as it was called then – a rather spontaneous decision after another reunion, John coming off the latest Cretan War and Sherlock traveling through Athens from Rome. He had a fond spot for that wedding in particular; they'd gotten drunk off the natives after a local wedding and had a spontaneous ceremony themselves on the cliffs, over-looking the soft blue sea, watching the night fisherman cast their nets into the water below. The third had been in Prague, 1773, the fourth in Venice, 1854, and the most recent had been in Algiers, 1963, coming out of the cumulative fog of the previous two decades of war and strife.

"I think I'll ask you again." Sherlock said to the empty kitchen, his voice slow and slurred. "We're about overdue for another, don't you think? You better get up, John, or I won't ever know...and you're not that cruel. You better get up, John."

He could just see the sky begin to lighten around the curtains when he couldn't manage to keep his eyes open any longer. He weakly lifted John's arm so he could move under it, closer to him. As he settled against him, unmoving and still, he did not think of the body upstairs, congealing blood sticking to the tub, nor of the one outside, soon to be burnt to ashes in the light. He thought of the one beside him, how he loved him, would always love him, and he closed his eyes.


	5. Sundown, Part I

**Kennedy, Washington**

The car arrived at sundown. The sky was bloody with fresh rain, dying pink light caught and refracted off the tinted windows as it wound through the twisting green mountain roads.

There was already a team swarming the tiny red cabin. He waited until the last of the sunlight disappeared behind the trees then stepped out of the car, glancing around.

His eye immediately led to the splintered railing at the side of the house, and the large indent where it was clear a body had been thrown into the wall at a high speed. He tracked the movement back across the lawn, past the scorch marks burned deeply into the earth and the dead, clipped grass. Four knives protruded from the wet dirt, muddied with ash and the distinct smell of burnt calcium, the dried out abrasive smell of crushed powdered eggshells. The blades were planted in the vague shape of an angel, wings outspread and feet below. Insects were buzzing around the unseeing, blank eyes of a stag's corpse, completely exsanguinated.

The tree directly ahead was splintered; another, farther back, had the same damage. He turned, mapping the trajectory – the back door was nearly off its hinges, flapping about in the evening wind.

His people stepped aside as he entered the tiny kitchen. They had been ordered to leave everything as it had been found until he arrived. He closed his eyes, and gathered his thoughts.

A large puddle of blood was congealing on the floor, and he could make out the shape of handprints smeared throughout, as if someone had gathered it to them in great streaky swaths; he also spotted the even swipe mark of a tongue, narrower and more precise, on the cheap linoleum. Droplets and thin trails outlined where a body – perhaps two – had laid on the ground, their clothes mopping up the blood and leaving a clear imprint. A hole the size of a human body had been punched through the plaster, and when he peered into it he could see straight through the framing and insulation to the water heater, dented from the high-speed impact of a heavy object, or a body. Against the far counter and below the sink there was a significant bloodstain, as if someone had been injured on their back and then laid against it. The room stank of animal urine, most likely from the stag outside. The blood was not human. It smelled wild.

The fridge had been left open, the light still on but the rest empty; a crisper drawer had been disturbed. He went to his knees, careful not to disturb the large bloodstain, and looked around the floor of the kitchen, spotting a dark shape below the bottom lip of one of the cabinets.

Frowning, he straightened up and walked outside, heading up the stairs to the second floor. The bedroom was dark, which was unsurprising. Two pewter canteens sat on the table beside the bed, empty glasses rimmed in a dark, dry red beside them. The sheets were undisturbed, looking as if they had been vaguely made earlier and left to deal with later. On the whole it was unremarkable, and would not help him to any conclusions other than personal taste.

He crossed to the ensuite bathroom, one of his team opening the door for him. The overwhelming smell of old, spoilt blood hit him and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his nose. His teeth poked at his bottom lip.

The vampire had been dead for nearly an entire day, stabbed in the front by what looked like remnants of a guitar. It had been driven through her chest and into her heart – an immediate kill. Her hair was covering parts of her face, but he recognized her.

"Harriet." He nodded to the man at the door, confirming the identity.

Yes, it was very clear what had happened here. In any other circumstance, he might have been pleased at the cleanliness of the narrative, how obvious the events of the night before had unfolded. He had, however, other things to worry about.

"Mr. Holmes?" His assistant asked, coming up behind him. "We still haven't found any sign of them, other than the evidence downstairs."

He held up a hand. "There's no need." He said. "I know where they are."

-/-

The attic space was dark and cramped, the wood floor breathing wetly in the damp. He climbed the ladder first, barring the protests from his team. He knew what – and who – he would find, and the only danger lay in his own uncertainty, his greatest fear waiting to be confirmed, his greatest hope lingering in the vast ether, tethered to a fragile, tenuous theory which he could no longer easier define by reason than emotion.

It was a small space, no bigger than a child's bedroom, yet it was shrouded in total darkness, completely shielded from the light of the sun. As he crested the ladder, lifting his body into the cold vacuum, he could see a large trail of disturbed dust, streaked in blood. His eyes followed, landing in a far corner where he could see a mop of curly hair just above a stack of crates draped in ghostly white sheets.

"Hello, brother mine."

The head lifted, two dark hooded eyes turning slowly to look at him. There were deep circles lined underneath Sherlock's eyes, the eyes of the starving – those eyes of the deathly ill, the half-souled ghosts, the shadows of death. He stepped forward cautiously – blood-starved kin were dangerous. Hunger did strange things to unstable minds. Yet he took another step in, and his brother came fully into view.

He looked quite different than he had at their last parting. There was a large slash in his trousers near his thigh, a sluggish, oozing wound beneath, rimmed in the tell-tale oxidized green copper scabs of silver poisoning, and his curly hair was crusted with blood, smeared across his face in great swipes. He was crouched protectively over something, shielding it from view. As Mycroft rounded the crates, he could just make out the familiar form of John, ever-present at his brother's side.

"Let me see him."

Sherlock hissed, baring his fully descended fangs. In any other circumstance, it would have been an irreverent breach of protocol; a great transgression of disrespect to one's kin.

"Sherlock. I am your brother – you know I do not wish to harm him. Please, allow me to help."

His brother stared at him for a moment the way a cat might watch something curious, then shrank back, unwinding himself slowly away from his mate.

John had been laying in his lap, head turned away towards the floor. He could see the blood gathered on the back of his shirt, and his suspicions had been confirmed: it had been John, the shorter of the two, who had been shot before leaning against the kitchen cupboard. He had not known with certainty until that moment who was the more injured, but as he looked down at his brother's mate he was overcome by a low, cool knot in his stomach that gathered and tangled with each passing moment.

John was in a bad way. There was no other way to put it. Blood matted his fair hair, streaked down his face and chest. His clothes were dirtied with mud and grass, stained a dark rusty brown, and he reeked of deer urine. His fangs, too, were fully descended, his lips cracked and parted, face contorted in an unconscious twist of pain.

It was a miracle that they both weren't unequivocally dead – silver poisoning was slow but nearly always lethal, and a bullet was even worse, the wood splintering inside the body and preventing the wound from healing fully until it was removed.

Mycroft removed his coat, tossing it over a broken table. "How long has it been since you've eaten?" He asked.

Sherlock shut his eyes, head lolling against the boxes. "I don't know."

Mycroft frowned. They had been sheltered in the attic at least all day, with no time to venture outside to feed, nor any source to drink from. Yet they were alive.

"You've been feeding him." He said darkly. Sherlock didn't answer, and he strode up to his brother, yanking his arm up so he could see the damning marks: two puncture wounds, right at the wrist, unhealed. "You bloody idiot," he hissed, "do you know what you've done?"

Sherlock opened his eyes enough to glare at him. "Of course." He whispered, his voice hoarse and weak. "He's dying…what else could I do?"

"Mr. Holmes?" His assistant called. "Are you alright?"

Mycroft turned to the hall below. "Yes. They are both up here. Please bring the emergency supply to me immediately."

He looked back to Sherlock as he rolled his sleeves up. A moment later a hand came up through the attic entrance, holding a small canister.

"Thank you." He said, taking it. "See that all the human members are taken away from the house."

"Yes, sir." His assistant answered, disappearing back down into the house.

"You finally turned her." Sherlock croaked.

"Don't waste your breath on petty deductions," Mycroft chided, twisting the cap off. "Tell me what happened," and, as he passed the canister to his brother, he added firmly: "Feed yourself first."

Sherlock poured a small amount into the cap, sipping it slowly as his fangs scraped the plastic.

"Billy Wiggins…he was a local boy that helped me find things. My assistant, of sorts. I asked him for a bullet." He paused, taking another controlled sip.

"You wanted to kill yourself."

Sherlock's head rolled towards him, and the look in his eyes told him that his assumptions had been correct. John began to shift in his lap and his hand came up as if in reflex to stroke John's face.

"I hate this world. What it's become, what it's been." He said quietly, shutting his eyes, his hand brushing weakly through John's hair. "And he makes it all worth it. But he left. He wasn't around…not until I asked him to come. Harriet arrived shortly after, unannounced as usual."

What color he normally had was returning to him, but his fangs remained extended. He poured another capful of blood, gently pushing John's head back as he tilted the cap into his mouth.

"She tried to drink Billy, and she turned him."

Mycroft was silent, but they could both sense his distaste. "Harriet was always determined to have what she would."

"He killed her." Sherlock swallowed. "Broke my 1909 Gibson."

"Yes, I had noticed."

"You know the rest then."

Mycroft nodded. "Not the perpetrator, however. Is it taken care of?"

"John shot him."

He frowned. "You said you only had one bullet."

"John pulled it out…while we were fighting, he removed it from his shoulder."

Mycroft considered this for a moment. Was it so much of a surprise that John Watson's considerable strength had come to bear yet again? Was it so inconceivable that the same man who had saved his brother from blood addiction, who had brought the light back into his eyes after decades of failed experiments, apathy, boredom, had saved him once again? No. John was a man of exemplary character. It was not shocking that he would damn himself to save Sherlock's life; it was no more of a surprise to think that Sherlock would do, and had done, the same.

"Can you stand?"

Sherlock nodded, swallowing another capful. "I think so."

"Help me move him. He needs to lie flat."

Slowly, Sherlock separated himself, holding John's head as he moved out from underneath his weight. Together, he and his brother took hold of John underneath his arms; Mycroft noticed his brother flinch as he tried and failed to keep his face still as John let out a low moan, his eyes still tightly shut, lost to fevered unconsciousness.

"How long has he been asleep?"

"At least sixteen hours."

Mycroft shot him a sharp look. "And yet you waited before calling."

"Later." Sherlock answered, staring at him with an equal intensity, looking to the rest of the world like mild concern.

He nodded curtly. The largest concern was John – when properly fed normally, he would wake within the next hour. But nearly an entire day, suffering from silver poisoning and an infectious bullet wound, with nothing to eat but wild animal blood and nicks off his mate's wrist? It was worrying; most would be on the verge of breaking, and many did not make it back from that same precipice. He was surprised Sherlock could still string a sentence together, even with all his mighty faculty, addled by panicked silver.

He looked closely at the wound on John's shoulder, leaning forward to sniff at the cold skin. Sherlock growled overhead, moving to draw John closer to him. Mycroft's arm shot out, grabbing his at the wrist.

"Don't move him." He chided sharply before turning back to his examination.

If John lived, it would scar. The wound was mangled, the damage furthered by John's unsteady attempt to dig it from his own body. It had entered from his back, to the lower right of his shoulder, shot from below the waist. It had narrowly missed his heart, the trajectory only a few degrees off. His lips pursed, banishing the thoughts of what dark scene he might have come to if the aim had been true.

The bullet must have been in his body a short time – perhaps five minutes. The problem at the present moment was both the silver poisoning and the wound itself; the denser the wood, the great the impact, and John was dehydrated, unable to heal, subsisting off the equivalency of scraps, slowly poisoned by the blood churning through him.

"What do we do?" Sherlock asked quietly.

It was unnerving to see him this way; the last they had seen each other, he had been as haughty and imperious as ever, stubborn and malignant. To see him now, so utterly opposite, distraught to the point of silence, hunched over his husband as if nothing else were of any importance, it was quite different; a portrait of grief. He had rarely doubted his brother's loyalty to his mate, but he'd never seen the depth of it so fully and nakedly on display – not even in Berlin when he was certain John had been executed – and he'd thought that knowing him his entire existence would have uncovered every nook and cranny, yet a hidden facet still presented itself and he found that he no more understood who his brother really was than he did the true significance of the presence of John Watson in his life.

Mycroft answered him honestly.

It is always best to leave the knife in a wound than to take it out completely.

-/-

 **United Kingdoms of Sweden and Norway, 1838**

The castle was being haunted; before they were dismissed, the cooks would catch something at the corner of their eye, moving quickly behind them when they went to the cellars or the pantry. When the kennel keepers let the dogs out for a run after dinner they could see a shadowy figure at the end of the frozen lawn, just where the trees began, and only on moonless nights was the white horizon still and silent.

John looked up from his writing as Sherlock came into their room, dusted in snow.

"How was your walk?"

"Tedious." His husband answered, hanging his coat out by the fire to dry.

"How so?"

But Sherlock didn't answer, already shrugging out of his shirt and tossing it onto the bed. John got a brief glimpse of his bare back before the door to the bathroom closed.

They had come to Norway for a case; it had long been solved, but Sherlock had been asked to be kept on retainer in the countryside mansion of one of the nobles, and John had convinced him to stay, expecting a new adventure to begin imminently, as they usually did.

They had arrived in late summer. Although the castle was small, the grounds were large and rather English, and John had had a wonderful time riding around, reading and writing at his little desk, walking at the lake under the moon. They were visited often enough by interesting dignitaries, ambassadors, travelers, even the King himself on a few occasions, their old friend Bernadotte, a student of Sherlock's and his brother's when they had attempted to work the strings of the revolution as if it were a game of chess.

The same could not be said for his mate; as the days went on, he began to notice that Sherlock was content, but not satisfied. He would often join John in his nightly activities, but soon he appeared less and less, wrapping himself in a cloak in the dungeon of the castle, running experiment after experiment late into the morning.

One of John's first lessons after they found each other was in Sherlock's wavering tolerance for life. One day he might love it, become enamored with the bloom of a flower, the data of an experiment; the next, he would be disappointed that it all didn't live to his exacting standard, falling short of whatever scale he had in that giant brain which forever weighed the benefit versus the price of existing on earth, feather to pound, in love with the shackle yet spiteful of it.

Most days, John figured he found it was worth it. He had not known of the dark thoughts Sherlock entertained when they were apart, and when he finally admitted to them on the lawn of Dartmoor after a night facing the spectres and hounds of the hall, John had watched him pant out the truth, that he was terrified of dying, terrified of the greatest and loneliest last moment of wasted potential and squandered time, terrified of the true death that would separate the two of them irreparably. He had gasped into the wet grass of the early morning that John was never to leave him, that he was never to go where he could not find him.

John himself had contemplated suicide more than once, not because his life was unbearable but because it was a feasible solution; he only outpaced Sherlock's logic in that one regard, and when he had told Sherlock rather casually of his past contemplations, his husband's gaze had snapped to him, wearing a wild expression he didn't often see, and had grabbed him by the lapels, hauling John right up to his face as he bit out forcefully: "You will tell me the next time."

John had promised, and had made him do the same. To his knowledge, so far Sherlock had kept that promise. He learned to read the signs before the storm came: the apathy, the bitterness, the caustic words and careless remarks. Although it was a slow and rather painful lesson, he had realized that no number of kisses, sweet words, love and care might cure his mate; he was not looking for tenderness, he was looking for stimulation.

So, John gave it to him, finding new mysteries, encouraging his research and interests, hosting dinners and surprising him with secret gropes under the table while the court and aristocracy gabbled, dragging him into hidden dalliances in the nooks and crannies of whatever castle they happened to be at. Although Sherlock had never actually admitted to it, John knew he had been relatively untouched before they had met, and when his libido awakened with astonishing and ambivalent curiosity, John had played the game with him, found fun in hunt and seduction, but he had never enjoyed it as much as his husband did, perhaps because it was always easy; a barrel of fish did not compare to the wild river. So, suffice to say, over the years he had become quite good at reading and interpreting one Sherlock Holmes.

Eventually, his tricks became expected. He failed with increasing frequency to draw Sherlock from his moods, and they became blacker. The windows began to frost in the morning, and by the first snow John was walking alone, feeding alone, and sleeping alone, with few exceptions.

As their visitors dwindled, Sherlock started lashing out, biting at the smallest irritant, finding fault in the most minute things, and John could tell that he was unhappy, just as he could tell that what Sherlock hissed or yelled at him was not because he hated him, but because he found his own experience at present unbearable. On the rare night they spent together, it was usually because of circumstance, Sherlock passing through the drafty hall on his way somewhere else, deigning to talk to John for a moment or two before continuing onwards. On the even rarer event that they held a conversation for longer than a few minutes, when John would become emboldened in the way a child who calms a wild animal long enough to pet it would, he might reach out, gloveless, to touch Sherlock's cheek or his hand, only to have the man return the affection in a brief pulse over their bond, then disappear.

As winter set in, he could do nothing but witness the color seeping from their world, water to pigment.

Sherlock was immune to his affections, refused his attention, drew into himself and left John outside to freeze; when the nights became longer he shut off their connection, and that had hurt John the most. Even without the romance, the sex, he still had present and consistent intimacy with their bond, and when it was gone he felt as if he had failed, utterly and completely, and he was gutted by his inability to reach the one person who really mattered. The introduction of Irene Adler had not helped, and the light that appeared in Sherlock's eyes after she came around stung with a precise and deep wound. She was fixed to his side at all the dinners, the ceremonial events, grouped head to head as they conspired over what, John didn't know. Everyone spoke of how good they looked together, and John began to believe it.

His walks became longer; once or twice he even risked the rising morning to talk to the postmaster and the stable boys before retreating back into the castle walls, avoiding the wings he knew he would find his husband in, and his husband's constant companion.

He had no idea of how Sherlock was feeling, what he was feeling, who he was feeling it about. He felt as if he had been cast out of love, the door slammed in his face, and he had not meant to do it the way that he did, but one day he had found himself watching himself from a great distance one night during a snowstorm as Sherlock presented the ticket John had bought and hid in the pocket of his travel jacket: a single billet to Turkey, one way, for the next night.

"Were you going to do it?" Sherlock had asked him.

John looked at him then, and considered the question that previously he would never have thought could even cross his mind, much less be entertained to near completion. He was not in Sherlock's head anymore, but he knew him well enough to recognize the expression on his face.

"Don't look at me like that."

"I have every right to look at you however I want." Sherlock responded. "Answer the question."

"I meant don't look at me like I'm an audience that you have to convince of your good intentions. Do that to everybody else. Do that to Irene. Don't do it to me. You know better."

"I thought I did." He said evenly, and John had never seen this Sherlock before, so cold to the world, to John, swept into the dark tide of his own feelings. John had an image of them on the grass at Dartmoor, the look in his eyes, the moon banished from the night, and John knew what Sherlock's worst fear in life was when he had said I don't want to be left alone in the dark.

"I don't know what I would or wouldn't have done until the last moment before I did it." John answered, because it was true. Only when he was forced to make his choice would he have been certain which one it was.

He felt a vibrant, lush sensation in the back of his head and irately shook it away as if dusting a cobweb; he had almost forgotten the feeling, like brushing against velvet warmed in the sun.

"What," he hissed, "now that it's convenient you want to come back inside?"

Sherlock shrunk back at his tone, clearly not expecting such a potent venom at the intrusion.

"It was only off for a few weeks, John, honestly—"

John slammed a hand on the table if only to make some authoritarian movement, something he could do to establish his stake in all this, to be heard.

"I told you, don't do that. You know what this has been like for me. This is the longest conversation we've had in months. You have to – you're the one who notices everything, right? Sees everything? I've never been able to hide from you, and truth be told I never wanted to, but damn you Sherlock Holmes, you're making me see the appeal of it."

The color – already blanched since his last feeding – leeched from Sherlock's face and he stared up at John as if he had never quite seen him correctly before.

"You really do want to leave me."

"Don't be an idiot, of course I don't," John huffed, and maybe he wanted to make him suffer a little for the past months' grievances, "but you weren't exactly making it easy. Every day there was a little less attention, a little less love in all of it, and I told myself that's normal, right? I don't expect you to think of me every moment of every day. We're not like that – I don't want us to be like that. But I had to start learning how to live off of the scraps you tossed me and pretend that it was enough, it was like you were forcing yourself to be with me, like I was a burden, something to pat on the head now and again. And then Irene…"

He paced around in that small room and Sherlock watched him, his eyes never leaving as he moved one way to the next.

"I never doubt that you love me, but there were days – there are days – that I believe you forget. You forget what we are to each other, that we're a partnership, not a one-man crew. You try to pull the levers and turn the gears yourself, and I don't think you remember that I'm there to help you with all of it, transport and everything. You're making me feel like I'm rolling some great boulder up a hill and watching you do it too, and neither of us can help each other. So, yes, to answer your question, maybe I was going to go. Maybe I was. I don't know. I guess I won't ever know, not really, because you found out and I can't look you in the face and say I'll leave you. I don't have the ability or the desire to do that."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and hoarse, as if he had been the one talking, had been the one talking for hours and hours without ever saying a word.

"And you thought this would be easier?" He asked softly. "Never seeing me again?"

"It wouldn't have been forever. I just needed time and space between us. I thought you did too."

"How exactly would I have known that?" Sherlock glared. "And don't give me a vague answer, tell me specifically how I would have known with absolute certainty that you were going to come back, that I could follow you and you wouldn't turn me away?"

"You wouldn't have followed me." John said, if only to reassure himself of the lists of evidence that had rolled out and filled his brain with greater and greater velocity in the past weeks. Every brushing off, every dismissal feeding into the insidious notion that Sherlock did not need him there, had never needed him in the first place, would be better without him, if his presence mattered so little.

It looked to take all of Sherlock's ability to suppress his natural reflex to roll his eyes. "I think I know what I would or would not do. I'm asking you."

"If you must know, I had a note."

"A note." Sherlock repeated.

There was a knock at the door, sure and steady, and John knew who it was; there was only two people in the world with such a perfectly timed talent at interruption, and the second was on the other side of the world in Darjeeling negotiating on behalf of the East India Trading Company.

"Go away Irene." Sherlock called, not removing his eyes from John.

The door cracked open and Irene popped her head in, whatever clever retort dying on her lips as she took in the two.

"I'll be back later, then." She said curtly, disappearing as quickly as she had come.

They stood together in silence.

"Show it to me." Sherlock demanded, holding his hand out.

"What if I haven't written it yet?"

"You bought the ticket, John. You wrote it just in case you went through with the damn thing."

John reached a hand into his doublet, drawing a folded piece of parchment from it and handing it to Sherlock.

"One page." He said, shaking his head, speaking in a voice John couldn't decipher before turning away as he began reading.

John stayed where he was, arms crossed obstinately, and felt himself cooling as the moments passed by; he knew Sherlock's reading speed, and he knew he was reading it over once, twice, three times, four, trying to absorb every last bit of information.

Sherlock spun on his heel and looked John in the eye, holding out the letter for him to take as if it would burn him., waving it in John's vicinity to claim it.

"You really think you were doing me a favour."

John nodded, refolding the letter and putting it back into his pocket. "I thought it…might be better for you, if I wasn't around."

"You must never think that, John," Sherlock said as he straightened, a hardness entering his narrowed eyes. "Ever. Am I clear?"

"I won't think it if I don't have reason to." John answered coolly, and his husband was silent, turning his words over, trying to find every possible meaning he could.

"Let me be clear:" he continued, "the reason I wanted to leave is not because I don't love you, not because I don't want to be with you, and not because I want to never see you again. I wanted to leave because being with you was killing me. Don't give me that look, you know it's true. You aren't ignorant of many things, Sherlock, and certainly not about me, but you ignored me for weeks, made my simplest affections feel burdensome, made me feel as if I was an accessory to your life, following you around like that, listening to you and Irene. You turned our bond off for seven weeks." He gave a weak laugh that had no humor in it. "No one does that if things are going well. But I was never as smart as you, and you know that, so I think you should be the one to tell me if I was wrong."

"Of course you were wrong," Sherlock snapped, "and you knew that, of course. You may not be a genius, John, but you're just as observant as I am, even if your methods are different. You say I ignored you, that I dismissed your affections or worse still, I made you feel unwanted, and I have enough sense to tell you that you are correct. Very well, I am guilty of neglecting you, but not for the reasons you think. I let you away not because you do not occur to me, but because you occur far too often, and it is easier to remove your influence from me through separation, a withdrawal, so I can work. I can see now that it is…detrimental to the both of us."

"Detrimental." John repeated; he blinked once, twice. "Then maybe I should go if my…influence affects you this much."

"No." Sherlock said, so forcefully John took a step back. "I need you here. Haven't you heard anything I've been saying? You're a man, not a rock."

"You can't have it both ways. You can't cut me out and then put me back in when the time is good for you – it doesn't work like that, Sherlock. It isn't fair."

"Oh, who ever said it is?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "Who says it has to be? Since when has life considered justice in its affairs? Fair does not exist, John."

"It does when it comes to us. You said it yourself at our ceremony: we are equals in everything. That's what fair is. It's allowing me in, not shutting me out."

"A statement rich in hypocrisy. Is this equality why I'm only learning of your plan to leave me now, and not when it first crossed your mind? It's only fair, after all, that I suffer in one moment the culmination of what you have endured for weeks."

"Maybe it is." John agreed, and he knew that they both recognized the truth and the falsehood in the statement. Sherlock's shoulders lowered and he sighed, drumming his fingers at his hips.

"How do we remedy this situation?"

"Why, do you have something better to do?" John asked dryly, and they both grinned before descending back into solemnity. He looked away from the moment and answered honestly: "I don't know."

"I love you." Sherlock said lowly, staring at him from across the room, and John smiled the way one did at a wake, between the tide of grief and good memories.

"Sometime that's not enough." He answered. "You have to show it; it can't just linger there under the surface or it stagnates. It all dries out of the cup. And you still won't tell me why you left me out…we both know it wasn't only because you were working, was it?"

A tremor ran through Sherlock's lip. "Nothing is worth anything if you aren't there with me to share it."

John nodded. "I know that. I feel the same way."

"I…apologise for making you feel like this. I hadn't realized that what was beneficial to me was hurting you so deeply. I've been…angry, for lack of a better word. Frustrated, bored. For the first time in our lives having you with me wasn't helping, and I handled it…poorly."

"If we're doing apologies now, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about anything, or about all of it. I was…I felt so sure you wouldn't...you wouldn't…" John's voice faded into a whisper, unwillingly to admit the secret conviction he held deep inside of him.

"May I?" Sherlock asked, motioning to his hands. John nodded and he removed his gloves, long fingers revealing themselves as he crossed the room, stepping nearly chest to chest with his mate.

"You wouldn't even notice I was gone." John finished, lacking the strength to look up at his husband and have him see what John would have confessed to at Dartmoor, had he been seeing hallucinations too.

Sherlock's hands wrapped around either side of his face and he gasped at the sudden light blooming in his mind as their bond went back online.

It was an odd thing to describe, but to John it always felt like the ocean. If he wanted to go deeper into the feeling that engulfed him, he could, and he would find things there if he wanted to find them; Sherlock could do the same. The sensation that they shared was multi-faceted, endless, technicolor, vibrating at every frequency and then some.

He was falling in the feeling of love, hot and smooth, weathered but showing no signs of wear. He could feel the press of Sherlock's loneliness, all of his solitary nights, his desire for a companion clutched so tightly to his chest it left a negative imprint; the weight of it when it lifted that first time, under the willows on the banks of the Thames, the two of them racing against the sun after a bloody and fortunate hunt.

Some days it singed; they were too close, yet not close enough. Other days it ran cool but strong, the hidden current in a river, powered by the draw of the fall. Violent delights have violent ends; John remembered hearing that in London in the original run. The way they felt about each other did not change, although its intensity may waver.

"What would you have said?" Sherlock asked, his eyes closed, leaning his head against John's.

"When?"

"You were going to leave tomorrow, for…let us say an indeterminate period. Apart from your note, it would have been the last time we spoke unless I found you or you wrote to me. Did you know what you would have said?"

John drew back a little, and the immensity of their bond lessened, narrowed like a lens focusing.

"I'm not sure." He said, licking his lips in thought. "I suppose it would have been something mundane. Put up your jacket, don't leave that out, I'm going to bed. Something I tell you all the time."

A look began to grow on Sherlock's face as he stared down at him, something at once both amused and tortured, as if he were seeing something he didn't quite understand, and in that bemusement there was a bitter humor.

"What?"

"The only reason I found your note was because I thought you had one of my workbooks from our field experiment in Bonn. If I had not needed it at that precise moment, if I was not interested in that particular data, you would be gone by now. I would have come back from the labs, probably hungry – you might have saved me something like you do, or you might be in one of your moods and demand I get it myself."

"Most people don't consider being responsible a mood, my love—"

"Nevertheless, I would have come here first, if only to eat or change clothes. I imagine you would have left it on the desk?"

John nodded and Sherlock turned away, slowly walking over to the little pine desk under the window, neat and bare save for parchment rolls and inkwells.

He stood at the desk for a moment, fingers reaching out to run along the grooves and marks on the old wood.

"I wouldn't have noticed it immediately." He said quietly. "Not at first. I would…wonder where you were, and rationalize that you were merely somewhere else, but somewhere close by. The possibility that you were gone would not have occurred to me, and why would it? We've been together since we met; you belong at my side, and I at yours. I wouldn't have known until I read your letter."

He turned around to face John, his face unreadable and blank.

"I wouldn't have known – that, I think, is the cruellest thing you could do to me. Leaving me in the dark, without warning. Proving to me that brilliance had blind spots, and no amount of intelligence would bring you back because I was the one who allowed you fall away."

John said nothing at first, because it was easy to write a note, easy to remove himself from his actions, easy to run away and look back later. He went to the window and rotated the pull to open it, letting the smoke and heat from the fire drift out into the snowy night.

"It was the easiest way for me to leave you." He admitted. "I didn't do it to punish you – not really; I was trying to save myself. It was an act of self-preservation."

"Mutually assured destruction at this point."

John nodded, chuckling at the truth of it, however depressing or optimistic it was. "I suppose it is."

"If I had not shut off the bond, would you have left?"

"It depends. How long can we go on ignoring each other? How long could I watch you attend every event here with Irene on your arm and not me? How many times could I walk around the lake and not feel like I've done it a thousand times before? You said it was cruel of me to leave you this way, but the truth is if the bond had been active, I would have had something reassuring to keep me here. What you did to me, to us, was cruel too; maybe a different kind, but cut from the same material. Isolating someone who loves you is cruelty, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlocks eyes had darkened as the oil lamps dimmed; John hadn't bothered to refill them, knowing, presuming, he wouldn't be there the next night. Their vision didn't change with the light, and he could still see his mate standing there as clear as ever, staring at him with those grey eyes the color of the morning frost that gathered on the window.

"I've hurt us badly, haven't I?" He asked quietly, and the wind howled outside as the storm began to pick up.

"It's nothing we can't come back from."

"I'm trying to apologise."

"You already did that."

"Is there a way to keep doing it?"

John looked at him for a moment, surmising. Although he could feel him again, it was from a distance, the way hatchlings shrink into the egg at the first glimpse of sunlight. There was something Sherlock was afraid of, something he was afraid that John would know.

"What are you not telling me?" He asked, watching Sherlock's face carefully. He respected their bond to not intrude into Sherlock's mind if he didn't want him to, but he skirted the line separating the two, searching for something he may or may not find.

Just as he began to graze against something, Sherlock blurted: "Irene fed from me."

He froze. "What?"

"I let her do it. I did. I'm sorry—"

John said nothing. He could say nothing, do nothing, but absorb the shock wave that trembled through him.

Blood was life to them; it was the symbol and a vessel, the all-encompassing summation and presence, of life. It nourished their bodies and the negative film around their soul, a reminder and pale imitator of their own late humanity. It was sacred and powerful; spilling their own was tantamount to a death sentence if a trusted supply wasn't around, and feeding from one of their kind was considered a supreme act of capitulation. It was why their kind were asked to make one another bleed at the bonding ceremony, because it was an act of trust. Some did it to humans they were fond of, others did it for the hedonism, but most did it out of love, because it was something only bonded couples and the passionate tended to do.

He blinked, and shoved away from the bond, surfacing out of the warm current between them and into the cold, airy isolation of his own mind. Sherlock was speaking to him, but he could not – would not – listen, and he walked past him towards the open window.

An arm grabbed his shoulder and turned him away, back towards the room. John hissed, baring his teeth, and reached up, wrapping his hand around the thin gold chain on Sherlock's neck and pulling, snapping the necklace off along with the ring strung onto it. With the other hand, he reached into Sherlock's shirt pocket and withdrew the folded envelope.

"I'm keeping this." He said, pocketing the ring on the chain. "You can keep that." He pushed the page into Sherlock's thin chest as it fluttered in the night wind.

"John, don't—" Sherlock lunged forward, grabbing at whatever part he could reach, wrapping his hand around John's elbow.

"Touch me again and I'll have your hand off at the wrist." He snapped, throwing Sherlock's arm off.

"John…"

He sat on the sill, throwing his legs over, and looked back.

"At least put your shoes on." His mate said, tearing his eyes away to search the floor for John's slippers, boots, anything. He was pulling wildly at his hair, clutching the crumpled note in his hand still, which told John that he had already accepted what was happening.

He smiled softly, sourly. "You don't even know where I keep them, do you?" He asked softly, and then he disappeared into the wind and the night.

-/-

 **Kennedy, Washington**

"And you asked me 'Didn't I even know where you kept your shoes,' do you remember that?" Sherlock asked, brushing John's hair away from his face. John whimpered at the touch, drifting in the sensation and whatever memory Sherlock chose to show him through the bond, sending him lower and lower into consciousness, keeping him subdued as Mycroft separated the skin of John's shoulder to pick out the pieces of microscopic embedded wood.

"I really thought I might die." Sherlock said rather plainly. "After you left, it was as if you have taken all the color of the world with you. And your implication was asinine, of course I knew where you kept your shoes, your domestic preferences are entirely predictable—"

"Of all the memories, brother mine, you pick the dourest, as ever." Mycroft sighed. "Why you would entertain Irene Adler is still quite beyond my faculty of reasoning."

Sherlock glared at him, one hand possessively pressing the centre of John's chest, both keeping him still and drawing him closer. "It was a mistake, clearly. He left before I could explain myself anyways."

Mycroft hummed, leaning in to peer into the wound, drawn open carefully. It looked, to him, as if it were healing, slowly but surely; a good sign. He washed the scalpel once more to ensure that even the smallest splinter of wood was removed before crouching to look at a different angle.

Sherlock was still talking somewhere behind him, mostly to John or to himself, he wasn't quite sure who the intended audience was and lacked the interest to know.

John flinched as he drew a particularly significant piece of shrapnel out. Sherlock pushed him back down, soothing him into peaceful memories; their night on the cliffs of Apanomeria, the white blocks of the city curving off beneath their feet, the sea deep and dark in the moonlight.

He let his mind go along with the memory as it flowed onwards, lost in his own thoughts, idly stroking John's temple.

Mycroft worked in silence, swabbing and picking bits and pieces from the wound, which now looked less raw and odious. He was just cleaning another set of disposable tweezers when Sherlock stilled completely, sucking in a hiccoughed gasp of air as his eyes flew open.

What?" He frowned, looking up.

His brother had a look on his face that he had never seen him wear before; only on carvings, statues, the agony of the woman before the ecstasy of salvation. His lips were parted, a subtle tremor running through them like wind on calm water.

"I can't feel him. The bond…I can't feel it, Mycroft."


	6. Sundown, Part II

**Xiguan City, Guangdong Province, China, 1839**

Night had settled over the grasslands. The black river water lapped slowly into the port, a long day unwinding into evening.

The city had overrun by foreign officers for weeks, scores of Englishmen drunk and stumbling through the streets, chasing women, packing dens and basements and filling the air with poppy smoke. Junks floated in the harbor, their owners shouting at each other to make way, some already anchored at the docks, crews perched on the lips of their vessels, soaking their feet in the water, stacking sugar funnels under the scalloped wicker awnings, the ferry owners pouring each other a drink after a hot day.

A few streets away from the harbor there was a tall narrow house crammed between an inn and a brothel, the banner outside in Cantonese: Xi Su Noodle House. Dark curtains muted the shaded lights inside, but sound spilled out into the cool air along with the sweet, burnt syrup smell of flower smoke and the sour stale smell of spilt beer.

A man rounded the corner, a sailor most likely, although he wasn't in uniform. The guard posted at the door watched him, then turned to spit. When he turned back, the man was there beside him, staring down at him through shaded glasses, the round kind the English gentlemen wore when they visited. His eyes were a bright effervescent blue, barely muted behind the lenses.

He smiled. The guard let him pass, certain that he had been expected.

The man walked into the shop, the rich smell of roasted duck and glutinous rice humid in the air. He wove through the staff as they yelled amongst themselves, shuffling their carts around the people in the queue and those already seated, focused on little else but their dumplings and noodles, paltry vegetables floating in oily broth. The next guard in front of the narrow stairs to the basement let him pass too, down into the dark smoke.

He didn't take the shaded glasses off, wandering through the fog, looking down into the hazy faces for the one he recognized. Men were stacked on bunks, huddled together, lying limber on a pile of cushions, a faraway look in their eyes that he had grown to hate.

The shadows grew longer, darker, oil lamps and candles running lower and lower the farther back he went until finally he caught a glimpse of a familiar grey gaze as it settled hazily on him.

He sat down across from the other man, who bolted upright, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his gown, the man beside him slumping in a boneless slouch onto the thin cot.

He took off his glasses, the bright blue of his eyes radiant in the dark den. "Hello, Sherlock."

"John." His husband responded, eyes wide in a sallow, pale face. "I thought you were in Pakistan."

"I was." John said, crossing his legs as he looked at Sherlock. "When Mycroft told me about you, I thought I'd heard him wrong. I thought, no, I know him. I know him better than anybody, he wouldn't do that to himself. I thought we'd worked past this when we saw each other last—"

"Nearly a year ago, John," Sherlock slurred, "and you weren't long in Algiers."

"I thought," John continued, "that we were in agreement."

Sherlock stared at him, half-lidded and petulant. "I want you here. You keep leaving."

"And you were willing to risk your personal safety and health to make sure I came?" John shot back, frowning. "I told you why I wasn't going to stay."

"I believe I told you what would happen when you left." He said sluggishly, holding out his arms. "Was I wrong?"

"So, you're damning yourself to try and prove a point to me? Feeding off poppy smokers and drug addicts will kill you, and it will kill me too, in case you've forgotten the vow you made, and despite what it may seem, I don't want you to go. You told me you were changing."

Sherlock nodded loosely, head lolling on his shoulders. John stood, furious, and grabbed him by the lapel, hauling him to his feet.

In the blink of an eye they were outside, and he threw his husband down on the roof of the noodle house, his body knocking against the chimney.

"I told you not to take me for granted, Sherlock Holmes. And instead, you're what? Drowning in your own sorrow and self-pity?"

Sherlock glared at him before slowly rolling to his side, unsteadily getting to his feet. He swiped the debris from his dressing gown rather gracelessly, his hands trailing at the silk of his robe, clearly off his arse on poppy blood.

"It makes me forget." He mumbled, his eyes tracing the terra cotta shingles. John bit the inside of his mouth – he would get no more out of the idiot tonight.

He strode up to his mate, stopping when they were nearly chest to chest. Sherlock's chin fell towards him, his face belatedly following the new movement. There was something in his eyes, the way they glowed in the night, that he had missed, but he didn't want this man standing here now. He wanted his partner.

"John…" Sherlock slurred, a dumb smile coming to his face, more relaxed than he had seen him in years. He clasped a palm around John's neck, forgetting his bare hands as he drew their bodies together, and kissed him.

At his touch, John was swarmed in a downpour of images, memories; the inebriated spoils Sherlock had been reaping as he trailed pipe after pipe, attaching himself to whoever swooned first because it meant one less moment he would remember. His mind filled with smoke, pickling in distant bitterness and a rancid, ever-present mood, cantankerous and ill-tempered. The setting was irrelevant, the people were expendable. He could feel his mate's teeth as he drained corpse after corpse, leaving them blue-lipped, bloodless, dead eyed, slouched on their pillows, one against another, another, another...

Nothing mattered. He owed nothing to the void, which stretched on in the windowless cellars and dens. It was a mindless, thoughtless existence and he couldn't stop the smile that came to his face because it felt like he was in love, weightless in its warmth and deep water. Yes, he was in love, in love with John, he had always been in love with John. She was nothing, nothing, a miscalculation, a minor distraction please John believe me, believe me, love you I love you—

He snapped back to himself, ripping himself away from Sherlock's grasp.

He stared at his husband, the two of them slumped together, so miserable and malcontent on this measly noodle house's roof under the stars that were the same in China as they were in Egypt, Norway, London. The same wherever they were. Sherlock stared back, an aimless smile coming to his face.

"I miss you." He pouted. "Make me forget."

He lunged forward clumsily, knees buckling, and John caught him before he dropped, lifting him up and carrying him off into the night.

-/-

When Sherlock woke, he woke alone. Immediately he bolted upright, unsure if what he remembered had actually happened. He had been changed out of his old tattered clothes and into something that smelled faintly of John's hands.

"John?" He called out, glancing around the sparse room, tossing back the thin blanket. He wobbled on his feet, head spinning, but bit through the nausea and stumbled from the tiny windowless bedroom – more like a closet than a living space – out into the hall.

"John?" He repeated, nearly tripping over the train of his dressing gown as he shrugged it on, the silk worn and stained and spoiled, pocketed in burn marks, and he burst into the next room, a small kitchen with a coal black wood oven. He couldn't stop the hopeful smile that came onto his face at the sight of his husband, arms crossed, leaning on the doorframe as he looked down into the street below, taking in the cool night air and the moonlight, but it quickly fell when he saw who occupied one of the rickety seats at the little wooden table.

Irene smiled, glancing over him. "Well, you look wonderful don't you, darling."

"What are you doing here?" He spit. "What is she doing here?" He asked John, who still hadn't turned to look at him.

"Charming as always." Irene sighed. "John asked me to come talk to you."

"John—?" He glanced up towards his mate, but found nothing except the breeze passing through the empty threshold. He reached out to feel at their bond, but it was still closed. John had been here when he woke; that was a start.

"It wasn't so long ago that we were in Norway." Irene sighed, watching the woman across the alley dump a pot of water into the street. "All that snow and open space. Where did the time go?"

"Why did John contact you?"

"Because he knew, correctly, that he would need help with you."

"He's never needed it before."

"Well he hasn't seen you like this before, has he?" Irene shot back, dragging a discerning eye over him. "I must say, Sherlock, there are far better dens in Shanghai where the people at least smell a little better going in—"

"They knew my face at the others."

"You mean to tell me you've been to every den in Shanghai?" Irene said, raising her eyebrow. "He really did break your heart, didn't he?"

Sherlock said nothing, but stared at the spot where John had been, trying to collate all the new information about him he had gathered in the few seconds they had been in the same room. He had been leaner, not eating as much as he used to; his clothes had been travelled in, the pants the dark burnt orange favoured near the Saharan to blend with the sand. It all screamed the same word that applied to Sherlock's appearance as well: exile.

"Don't think about him for the moment. We have other things to talk about."

"I don't want to talk to you."

"I know you don't, but unfortunately this is the only way to get to John. He was quite clear."

He whipped around, the gown flaring behind him as he advanced on the table where the woman sat.

"What did you ask him to do? You're not here out of the goodness of your heart."

"Careful, Sherlock, you might hurt my feelings."

"As if you have them. What was it? Murder? Assassination? Information?"

"I'm rather subtler than that, I think." She huffed, waiting a moment as if considering her answer. "He's on...a mission of diplomacy. An ambassador, if you will."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Who is he meeting?"

"You tell me what I want to know, and I'll tell you."

Warily, he sat, noisily scraping the chair against the hard tile. Irene folded her hands and looked at him, her face serious and solemn; her act as John's envoy.

"Why are you feeding off poppy blood?"

"It makes me forget."

"Forget what?"

"Who I am…what I've done. Doesn't it work that way for everyone?"

"How long has it been since you've had anything fresh?"

He shrugged. Irene sighed heavily, reaching into her bag and pulling out a beaded flask, uncapping the lid. At the smell, he leapt across the table, scrambling to take it from her hands before he knew what he was doing.

She gave him a look as if to prove a point, holding it out of his reach until he sat back, the only evidence of his outburst in his tightly clenched fists.

"Do you understand why John is upset with you? Drink slowly."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to be thinking about him." Sherlock said, sniffing at the blood before taking a deep sip.

"At the moment, you weren't. At this moment, you are."

"He has a myriad of reasons, of which you're well aware." He muttered, running his tongue along his elongated teeth. "He believes I have been unfaithful, he disapproves of my drug use, he does not like being reminded of you because of what he perceived we did together."

"I did drink from you." Irene said plainly, crossing her legs in a ruffle of fabric. "His perception of that event is clear."

"You drugged me, Irene. He only sees one side."

"And why is that, my love? Why didn't you tell him?"

"Don't call me that. I didn't have a chance to explain."

"Ugh." Irene sighed in exasperation. "What does that even mean? You had plenty of chances – you might've caught up with him if you'd given chase. You might've written to him a long and detailed record of the event, published it, nailed it to his door, but you didn't."

"He wouldn't have understood—"

"He understood you enough to summon me, did he not? He understands you enough to know he is out of his depth to talk with you, such as you are."

"'Such as I am' – what, pray tell, is that?"

"Oh, look at yourself, Sherlock!" Irene cried, gesturing to the length of him. "You're a ghost sitting in a gown that needs to be washed ten times over and you're barely listening to me because you know the dens are open soon and you're trying to decide which ones you think I don't know about. Well, I know about all of them, and so does John, so your evening's scarpered. Stop entertaining me with trite answers – I'll not waste my time by treating you like a child."

"And how long have the two of you been conspiring to do that?" He said, narrowing his eyes. "John enlisted you to chastise me that what I am doing is not productive or right, to scold me like a boy caught stealing sweets. Please, talk to me like I know no better, and leave me alone!"

Irene stared at him, and blinked, a slow smile coming to her face. "I see. You're jealous."

"My bonded suffered because of you and my reactions to you. I am considerate of the fact of who and what you are.

"Your separation was only a distraction. You felt John going away, and that's why you allowed me to bite you. You burnt the ship in the harbour, my darling."

"Don't call me that." Sherlock repeated.

Irene frowned. "When were you going to tell him you were falling out of love? Then? Now? A hundred years? A thousand? You knew the two of you were going to dance around the topic as it rotted on the vine until something came along to make up your mind for you, and luckily enough I was travelling with Josephine on her way to Medevi…"

"I think now is a good time." Came a calm voice from the doorway, where John had appeared in the shadows of the street. "But I want to hear it from him, not you."

"Is it done?" Irene asked, straightening up. All traces of concern had washed from her face and another took its place, eager and attentive. John nodded, and she smiled.

"John—" Sherlock started, but his mate held up his hand.

"Thank you for talking to him Irene, but our relationship doesn't need yours projected over it. Stop using Sherlock as a proxy to fight whatever quarrel you have with your wife; you should go now."

Irene's smile did not leave, and she nodded slowly before turning to Sherlock.

"Until later, Sherlock Holmes." She said blowing him a kiss and winking at John as she strode around them, disappearing out the balcony door into the night.

The two stood alone for a moment in the quiet room before Sherlock spoke.

"It wasn't what you think."

John smiled. He hated those smiles. "Where have I heard that one before?"

"On my behalf, I never said those words to you. You only read them."

"Was what she was saying true?"

"Much of what Irene says is a lie; you'll have to be more specific."

"Loving me." John said, then clarified: "Falling out of love with me."

Sherlock thought of what he might say then that would convince his mate when he had been so inflexible before, all those letters and words that turned to ash because none had been strong or honest enough to win John back.

"I've only been in love the once," he told him, "and until recently I had no means of concluding that what I was feeling was abnormal or if it was something to be expected, and Irene, in her flawed logic, was correct in one thing: I could feel us drawing away, and so I retreated first. I weaned you off my affections and when I thought the time was right, I blocked the bond, tuned you out. It was…an act of utter self-preservation."

"What was the time right for?" John asked, and his mate shook his head. "Tell me." He insisted, his years from the military cutting through in the command.

"I was wasting away in that house." Sherlock admitted, leaning back in the chair. "I have never been unhappy with you, but I couldn't put my focus on anything else, and every time I saw you I began to find something I didn't like. It was an unflattering portrait, and supremely unfair. I was…frustrated by my failures, and aggravated by my apathy. Geniuses aren't meant to be bored, don't you see? It's dangerous. I would strike matches just to watch them burn, and part of me was waiting for you to go with them."

''You thought I was going to leave you." John surmised quietly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You remember Dartmoor. You remember what I said on the lawn." Sherlock replied, and John nodded solemnly. "My greatest fear and my greatest comfort in life is the potential of a bottomless existence. Something that goes on forever; the possibilities are endless, but, then again, the possibilities are endless. Do you understand?"

John nodded.

"I was still very much a fledgling when we met. On that hunt, it seemed as if you knew how to do everything correctly, with a jurisprudence I admired. You knew I would follow you out into the woods. You knew you wouldn't get caught if you drank from the stag. You were utterly resplendent to see on that horse; I still consider it quite a privilege to have witnessed. I looked to you for guidance, and you have guided me. You are my one constant in this sea of madness. I never wanted to be without you, but I couldn't bear to be with you. I thought I had my feelings under control…I was waiting for something to happen, and it did."

John stared at him for a moment, his face inscrutable as he rubbed at his face, settling against the doorframe.

"I heard you say she drugged you."

"Eavesdropping, John? For shame." Sherlock chided, noting the red tinge that flushed to John's ears.

"She convinced me to sample more…exotic fares. I thought it was rather thrilling, until I realized she had spiked one of the chalices. I was awake and asleep, and she drank from me."

"Why didn't you tell me that?"

"Would you have believed me?"

"At the time, perhaps not. I was jealous. I was…resentful that you kept choosing her over me. I'm your partner, your mate – I'm not an accessory, you know? Well, I know you know. But the fact remains that you neglected our relationship in favour of what you wanted, and a part of me had been waiting for that for years, all along, and it had finally come to pass."

"I didn't mean to—"

John held out a hand to interrupt him. "I know you didn't mean to, just…hold on a moment, alright? I've sat on this thing for months now, turning it over and over, what I'd say to you, what you'd say to me, how I'd handle all of this…Let me say just say it and be done, please."

Sherlock nodded.

"I don't believe you meant to hurt me like you did," John started, "and I'm not going into this convinced that it was the end of us. But I want to be clear, Sherlock: I don't care if it's an experiment. I don't care if you did it because you couldn't stand the sight of me. I don't care. If it happens again, I will leave and there won't be another chance. You will not see me again, and you know and I know that's the truth. Do you understand?"

"Yes, John. Some of your statements are inaccurate, however."

"How do you mean?" He frowned, and Sherlock stood, chair falling back noisily as he came up to him.

"Is it my turn to speak?"

John nodded.

"I believe you felt these things, John, but you still seem to be belabouring under the delusion that I allowed this to happen because I could not stand the sight of you. In truth, you couldn't be more incorrect, and despite what I have said I don't think you've heard what I've been saying at all."

John stared up at him, and in the back of his mind he could feel a warm wash come over him, testing him at the edges.

"What," he parroted, swatting away the feeling, "'now that it's convenient you want to come back inside'?"

"You said I'm just as observant as you, but I feel I don't agree at the moment. I need you to tell me what I'm not seeing."

Sherlock rolled his next words around before he spoke again. "You blushed just now, right at the ear. Who was it?"

"Who are they ever?" John replied wearily. "Someone who won't remember."

"I didn't know you were hunting again."

John sighed. "You know I don't call it that."

Sherlock paced a little, carding a hand through his hair. "When was I sired? What year?"

"1512." John answered in reflex.

"And how old am I?"

"Are we including your natural life as well?"

He sighed, staring down into the street as he settled against the threshold, crossing his arms. "If you must."

"361 years old."

"And the typical lifespan of our kind is?"

"800 to 1000 years." John said, his eyes narrowing. "Is this your way of telling me this all was a midlife crisis? Really?"

"When you were my age, you'd gone through most of Constantinople."

"Istanbul by then." John muttered, but he could tell he was finally listening. "And that was different. I'm not excusing what I did, but I wasn't on some warpath towards oblivion; I wasn't killing at random—"

"But you'd fucked half the city and fed from the rest."

John's brow furrowed. "Are you saying this was revenge? Getting back at me for something you sat on for two centuries?"

"No—no! —John, don't you see?" Sherlock exclaimed, tugging at his hair as he spun around. "We've been through this before, and it's like nothing ever changes! You went to the Ottomans because you wanted something new, some kind of stimulation I couldn't offer, and I let you go even though I wanted you with me. I always want you with me, I tell you, always, and yet you continue to undermine and negate that even when I tell you it's true. Haven't you heard me? Haven't I said it again and again?"

Ghosts of old words encircled them. I need you here. Haven't you heard anything I've been saying? You're a man, not a rock…

"I know I hurt you. I went against our bond, and I used it against you—against us. I am telling you now, I have been telling you, that everything that happened to us was because I was vulnerable and our relationship was in no state to support me at the time." John opened his mouth in retort, but Sherlock cut him off. "No—I let you talk, and now it's my turn. When I drew away, did you follow? When I tuned the bond out, did we argue, or did you roll over and accept it? I wanted a challenge, and all I found was surrender.

Do you see now? Irene meant nothing – she finds what you want from her and allows you to believe it's something real. I thought she was someone to spar with, and I fell for her act. She fed from me after giving me tainted blood because her only concern is power. What could make her feel more powerful than not only besting a genius, but his relationship as well? I did not betray you because I stopped loving you, I did not let her feed from me because I loved her more, and I went to the Orient because I wanted to forget all the things I had done to us. Do you understand?"

John walked past him and sat down at the table, staring at the corner of the open balcony door as he turned Sherlock's words over. China, Norway, Dartmoor, it was all the same; it all came from the same worst fear, turned over again and again and left to wallow and putrefy.

I don't want to be left alone in the dark.

"Yes." He answered finally. "I think…it would be easy to blame you, and her, for everything. But I told you once that we are equals in everything too. I tried to keep you occupied – I really did. You remember."

Sherlock nodded. John rubbed at his face. "I'll never know if I had done one more thing, maybe I could have spared us all of…this. If there was something I hadn't thought of that might help save you from yourself. I won't know, but I think about it all the time, the things I could have done differently."

He sighed. "It's a dream anyways. You don't need saving, and you don't need me to tell you that you need it. The whole point of loving someone isn't because you want them to change, and I don't want to change you...but we can't go forward if you keep going downwards. I cannot watch you die, Sherlock. I won't do it. I don't want to keep adding these caveats to your behavior but I think some necessary lines need to be drawn. Loving you would kill me, and leaving might kill me too, but it would be infinitely more bearable if I was not witness to your demise at the hands of your own insecurities that I couldn't – could never have – saved you from, no matter how much I love you. Do you understand?"

His mate looked at him, arms hanging at his side, robe hanging off his thin frame, and John thought that he had never seen such a devastated look on his face as he had then, something wild, stripped of decorum and pride.

"What if I never get better?" He asked quietly, and John knew even without their bond that they had been asking themselves the same question since winter had settled in Norway, since Sherlock had been lost to the flood of depression and apathy, and when he answered after a moment, he told him the truth.

"I don't know. I don't know if it will, or if it won't…I don't know. Do you want to be?"

"I don't want you to leave."

John sighed. "That's not what I'm asking you, Sherlock. Don't hold this against me to make me stay."

"I know, but…I feel like I can't stop. I feel like my descent is accelerating and I can't do anything to stop it."

"You're an addict, Sherlock." He said plainly, looking up at him, his face illuminated by the oil lamp on the table. "People don't become one by being happy or content with how their lives are going. There is something within you that you need to address, and it all depends on if you want to. It will be hard – it might be the hardest thing you ever do – but if you do it, if you agree to work on this, then I will be there with you. Not because I feel guilty or because you need looking after, but because I love you and I want to see you happy. It won't happen overnight, but one day you'll come out of it better than you were before, and you won't find your existence so burdensome."

He stood, walking up to his husband, who had started to shake from the cold coming off the bay, from the sweet smell of burnt flowers it brought with it. John shut the balcony doors and turned, the two nearly chest to chest. Absentmindedly, out of habit, he straightened the collar of Sherlock's dressing gown, smoothing the wrinkled worn silk.

"What makes you so unhappy?" He asked, hands settling over his chest.

"That is a question without a simple answer."

"Give it a try. We've got all night."

"The world." Sherlock started. "Life on earth. The ignorance of us all, how little we care about anything but our own gain, our own proliferation, and damn those who disagree. I feel that no matter where we are, we are never living in an enlightened age. People act like animals, John. There's no reason in any of it. Why should I participate in this giant dung heap hurtling through space? Why should I involve myself in a world that cares nothing for you or me but what it can get out of us?"

John listened, his brow creasing. He licked his lips in thought, parsing out what he could possibly say to counteract such a deep distrust of the human race, something that until late they had both belonged to.

"I know what it feels like, to be outside of it all;" he started. "How someone like us could fit into a world like this. It is hard to be given our gift, and then be forced to bear it. What is a day to a century? What is time compared to immortality? We are the ones who watch the world, who learn its lessons, and survive to watch the same mistakes made, the same behavior continued, the same errors and ignorance and bloodshed that we once thought was so common to only the time we lived in, not the ones before or after.

I've lived for more than half a millennium…almost 600 years now. Six centuries of watching man learn little, and progress slowly. I understand why the world might be a source of pain for you. I think…most people – humans at least – don't have the time that we do to process everything. There just isn't time for them to understand the purview of life and its consequences; their lives are short, and their memories shorter, and it altogether makes for a terribly shortsighted existence. It can be easy to look at them and believe that they have learned nothing, will never learn, that they will always be this way, and in some ways, that's true. I know you remember what it was like to be one of them, and it isn't fair to condemn a whole race for their crime of having a short and finite lifespan. They don't see the things that we see."

Sherlock frowned, coming up to touch at the leather of John's gloves, his thumbs tracing the fine stitching. "That all may be true, but one would hope they'd make more progress in half a millennium then what they've actually managed to do."

"Believe or not, Sherlock, it's there, and it may not be as much as you'd like but it's better than nothing."

His husband smiled, a cold little thing that hinted more at bitter amusement than happiness. "That's supposed to make me feel comforted? That it's better than nothing?"

"I won't lie to you: it's not the best outcome. But you can't hold the world up to your exacting standards simply because you know better—"

"And why not?" Sherlock said, moving to grip John's hands in his. "Why? Why can't we just let the word out that our kind exists and let our day come?"

John looked up at him a moment then frowned. "Are you saying that you want us to throw a coup over the entire human race?"

"Maybe – no – I don't know. Surely we could offer a better future for life on earth than the way we are continuing now."

"Is this what you've been thinking about? All those nights you spent locked away and brooding in your lab?"

"Not until you left, I didn't. But between leaving Norway and seeing you again in Algiers I did. Why wouldn't I? You remember what I told you I was like before we met – even Mycroft couldn't help me. I do not pretend to be a good man; I don't know if I will ever be one. You make me want to want it, and when you're gone I have nothing to serve as a reminder."

John couldn't help it – he laughed in his face, a dark, incredulous laugh at the absurdity of what he was hearing. "You're telling me that after I left you, you seriously contemplated overthrowing the human race."

"I don't see what's so funny. It comes from the darkest part of me, John. It doesn't mean I'd ever act on it, or see it to completion, but I can't help but think about it, and Irene certainly didn't help."

John sobered instantly, tapping his knuckles absentmindedly against Sherlock's breastbone. "Irene…and what did she have to say about all of that?"

"She told me I was right to think it, but the time wasn't ripe yet."

"So she would have helped you, if you had asked her; if the time were right; if I wasn't around."

"I believe she would, yes."

"Sherlock…this is so fucked. I know you wouldn't lie to me, I know that you understand fundamentally between right and wrong, but you just admitted to me that you were planning to, hypothetically or not, overrun the human race because you and your husband were on a break. Do you understand how absolutely ridiculous that sounds?"

"People have done worse for less. Genghis Khan conquered the entire Khwarezmid Dynasty over a murdered ambassador."

"…And your counterpoint to my concerns is that great men do terrible things over small matters." John looked at him then, staring into the deep grey hue of his eyes, flickering over his face before resting on his hands, still clasped to his mate's chest.

"I won't be held hostage in my own relationship," he said, "and I won't have you hold the world over my head to keep me with you. I don't believe that you would do these things, even if I left, but I suspect that the man you would turn into would, under the influence of Irene and your brother. All of this, Sherlock, all of it, is because you are too intelligent to be left alone with a box of matches, and I don't know what to do about that."

"I won't 'hold you hostage', John." Sherlock responded sourly at the implication. "You know I won't."

"You're trying to keep me with you by saying that when I'm not here, in between feedings of poppy blood, you think about world domination. How is that not making me beholden to be by your side? I've been a surgeon, a doctor, a soldier, and you're appealing to my sense of duty and honor when you say these things. I may not be a genius, but I'm not an idiot, and I know Irene told you that I would come back if I thought you were in danger."

"She told you." Sherlock's eyes flashed.

"Of course she did. I found her in Hyderabad, working with the Talpurs against the British, so I don't think she'll be showing her face around Victoria any time soon. And, in her own manipulative way, I think she does care about what happens to you. She might even love you. When I asked, she told me about all of this; she didn't mention the aspirations world domination."

"I don't really believe it, John. Just…there are times when it seems like the only viable option. Ignorance is mastered by education, knowledge. If they knew the possibilities, if they made the right choices—"

"See, the thing is," John interrupted, "if you ever did this, and it worked, do you think that humanity would welcome your mighty rule with open arms? Do you think they'd just lie down and take it? Or that I would? This idea…it doesn't even have a unified front with our kind, let alone theirs. It would never work, Sherlock, never. Even if you had the best of intentions, even if it was bloodless, do you think that we would inspire anything but fear in them? We eat them for God's sake. No," he shook his head, "they would be afraid and maybe that would make them pliable, but it would never do anything good. They outnumber us by far, and they would rebel, and if they did it enough times it would be successful. You would only ever be master of the ashes."

John stepped away, going to the window to look down into the street. People hurried home in the night, walking quietly past one another, around couples, groups of arguing shopkeepers, drivers gambling on the seats of their rickshaws, drunken Englishmen hobbling down the road. He would never know what it was to feel entitled to reign over them, or even contemplate it, but he knew that his husband did, and he knew that he was capable of fulfilling it as well, with as cold as his intelligence could be. Sherlock was not heartless, but he could be apathetic, and in that apathy become calculatingly destructive; he was good at finding weak spots, whether he exploited them or not. John bit his lip against the words he wanted to say, but in a moment remembered all of what Irene had told him, what Mycroft had reported, and he felt a low burn bubbling up inside of him.

"You want me to be clear. We seem to be going in circles, so I'll try to be clear," he said, straightening up and turning away from the window.

"Humanity is not your puppet to guide whatever way you want it to go, and the whole point of life on earth is not its subjugation to someone who thinks they know better than everyone else. Saving the world won't save you from yourself, and enslaving the human race won't make you happier, or more satisfied with your choices, it would only destroy you, and you know that.

I can only assume that you're entertaining the idea simply because it makes you feel powerful, when in reality you're addicted to poppy blood and wasting away in a sad tenement house because you don't want to face your own mistakes. Irene told me you needed the truth and I can't believe I had to cross the continent and fight with you half the night to give it to you, but there it is. After all our words and our arguments and this insane fantasy you have about world domination, we're right back to where we started when I got here. It's—"

"—like nothing ever changes." Sherlock finished.

"Yes."

His mate glanced out the window, traveling over the scaled horizon of rooftops and chimneys, towards the rim of water lightening at the edges. "Neither of us seem to be listening to each other. Perhaps that was – is – our problem; not paying enough attention."

John came to stand beside him. "Perhaps." He agreed. "Irene did say we're just two idiots in love."

"Will you tell me what you did for her?"

He glanced at his husband's face, closed off completely. "No. Not right now, at least."

Sherlock nodded. A feeling of peace was overcoming him, nowhere near permanent, but enough for him to accept the totality of their conversation. They had gone both nowhere and in a full circle, excising the unspoken demons that had grown inside them and their relationship for years, a volcanic burst building until peak pressure was reached and it spewed forth, destroying as much as it touched but leaving the spaces clear for sounder reconstruction. He did not feel happy, did not know if happiness was something he could achieve again, but he was content. John was here, with him, and they were together like they were meant to be, however short it may last.

"It's almost morning." He noted. "It's good that you decided not to parse your words, John, or we'd have to take a break arguing in circles until tomorrow."

John threw back his head, and laughed. A grin spread on Sherlock's face, and the room did not seem so dim, their situation not so serious, the levity buoying in the moment.

"Are you saying we'll just sleep it off then pick up tomorrow where we left it?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore." He decided then, because he had nothing more to say. "I am…grateful that you came here. I wanted you to. Not like this," he added at John's sudden frown of consternation, "but I want you here with me, always, John. Always. I am sorry I ever made you feel any differently. I've suffered, and I've made us suffer, I hope not irreparably."

"Yes, well, I expect you've been punishing yourself enough for the both of us." John said, reaching out and taking his hand. Sherlock felt a thrill of electric shrapnel in his gut and tightened his grip.

"I'm not turning the bond back on." John said solemnly. "Not yet, you know. That kind of connection makes everything confusing. Most days I don't know where you start and I end."

"Understandable." Sherlock replied.

"Good." John nodded. "Now come on – I'm knackered, and you could use a rest. We've got a lot of work to do."

He took one last, longing look at the rising sun, and turned away, following John to their bedroom.

-/-

 **Kennedy, Washington**

"Why can't I feel him?" Sherlock muttered over and over, pressing his bare hand to John's cheek, cold in the chilly attic air. Mycroft frowned, leaning over his brother's mate, his bright eyes wandering through the miasmatic aura surrounding John.

Their kind were gifted, that was true; gifted with an everlasting life, immortal strength, an indescribable connectivity to the world around them. The older one became, the more they learned, and the more they were able to reach out to the world around them and have it touch them back. It did not work the same for everyone, but with the proper training and dedication, one might peel back the atomic layers of existence and peer into deeper pools. He had been fortunate and unrelenting in his pursuit of higher powers, which had granted him a larger understanding of spiritual matters.

John was dying – he had not said as much to his brother, but he knew that he knew. He could feel the essence of existence leeching from him slowly, and he was not surprised when the bond cut out; a last contingent to spare John any remaining energy.

The wood had all been cleared from the wound – he was certain, and thorough in his inspection, and would not leave the fate of his brother's mate down to a careless operation. He probed at the softening smoke-like veil that surrounded John – not his soul, but an imitation of it, a shadow of his past humanity – as he searched for something amiss, the thing that was slowly poisoning him, stopping his body from healing and his mind from waking.

He had never been so close to his brother's mate, and it was rather unnerving. He had always been aware of John, the kind of person he was, his influence on Sherlock for the better, but now he could sense the man in full, overwhelmingly so as he pushed deeper and deeper through his spirit, his psyche, he was never quite sure what to call it, but the ethereal substance that inhabited every living person, made them unique, an individual.

John was good. He was so good. The chivalry of his knightly days had never left him, nor his kindness, nor his bravery, his exceptional ability to tell right from wrong and empathize nevertheless with both sides. He understood with their sudden engulfment why his brother had chosen him so readily, why they were together, why any of this worked, and for a moment his work was blindsided by envy for he had always been alone, solitary on the mount, above it all. He had thought Sherlock was too, but he had been proven wrong. It was a lonely thing, but one he thought he had wanted.

He filed the thought away for later examination; there were more important matters at hand.

Wading through the mire, he found it: a hard, black thing emitting a noxious, thick smoke, the smell of burning waste. As his brother pawed at his mate's face, speaking words he could not hear or understand in the fog, Mycroft pushed himself outwards, away from his body, and wrapped his hands around this thing, so like a lump of foul coal. It had a slimy, porous texture, and tried to squirm away from his grasp but he uprooted it, dislodging it from John's being and pulling it back with him into the physical world.

The force sent him flying backwards, smacking against the attic wall, this evil leech writhing in his hands, sending a spray of tentacles towards his arms in an attempt to latch onto him. It emitted a high, shrill screech as it flailed, and just before it could attach itself to him, Sherlock was there, wrestling it away as John shot up suddenly, wide awake, gasping for air he no longer had any need for.

As Sherlock struggled with the creature, he regained his footing, unsheathing a blade he kept strapped to his garter for just such occasions. He waited for his opportunity, watching carefully as Sherlock grasped the thing around its squirming, screaming body, before he lunged forward, piercing it clean through with no harm done to his brother. It let out a loud, lingering wail, then fell from Sherlock's arm, disintegrating to the floor.

"What—what was that?" Sherlock breathed, staring in abject horror at the burn mark on the floorboards.

"Something we will discuss later." Mycroft answered, buttoning his jacket as he nodded their attention towards John, newly surface to the waking world.

As Sherlock went to his mate Mycroft collapsed to the floor, exhausted. He uncapped the canister that had rolled near him and took a long drink, watching as Sherlock took John into his arms, his bare hands sending their connection thrilling through them both. He looked away at such an intimate sight, pulling his phone from his pocket to dial his assistant.

"There have been unforeseen developments." He said as soon as the call connected. "Recollect our team, and bring an extra few canisters to the attic if you will."

He hung up, letting his head fall against the wall in a plume of old, disturbed dust. When he had driven that creature from John, he had been overcome by a fear so penetrating and invasive that he had not felt in a multitude of eons, perhaps since his own transformation. He had felt almost human again, terrified and frozen, and were it not for his extraordinary abilities that thing might have taken him as well.

His assistant soon appeared in the mouth of the attic hatch, bearing a bottle for each of them. He took it with a nod of thanks, smoothing his hair back into place before uncapping it.

What had happened here, in all regards, had been an unforeseen and unexpected affair, one whose strength he had not anticipated. He sighed, a long, low exhale.

There was much work to do. John's recovery would take precedence, and after that, Sherlock must know the face he had seen for one moment – one brief, dreadful moment – there in the parasite that had attached itself to John, feeding off his life and his spirit. The face of his former thrall, the man Sherlock had left to die rather than turn himself, an old enemy who, against all logic, he was certain he had seen, was certain was responsible for this, though how he had yet to figure out.

Moriarty.


	7. Together

**Kennedy, Washington**

He kept his eyes shut as he woke. He hadn't expected to, and consciousness came slowly, like a rolling fog tumbling into the void.

He could hear voices; voices he knew well but couldn't remember. Something was wrapped around him, warm and familiar. One was saying his name.

"John—"

Was that right? Was that him? His name, who he was. _John_ …it seemed alright. Something he could live with.

He sank back beneath the waves.

-/-

 **Donau Park, Vienna, Austro-Hungarian Empire**

 **November 1916**

The wind was cold and crisp, not stringent but with a sharp bite to it. He pulled the muffler around his collar tighter, buttoning it against the chill.

He sat at the table alone, staring down at the chipped and worn chess pieces. He'd fallen into a routine of sorts, coming down from his rooms to walk around the park after sunset, meandering through the couples, au pairs carrying sleepy children home for dinner, gentlemen clustered together furiously debating as they hurried to their destinations, cloaks billowing behind them.

He was not lonely – was he? No. He didn't think so. A telegram from John had come not two days ago, bringing word from the most recent session of the duma in St. Petersburg; Milyukov's speech was worrying…an insurrection was gathering, but of what strength or sort he wasn't sure.

He had shared his concerns with John tenfold, a thousand times, but the stubborn man wouldn't budge; he was going to stay a while longer, chance be damned. No amount of arguing or reason would move him. Part of him believed that not even a war would convince his husband to leave; another part believed that this was why he was staying: after what he had done in Switzerland, what had happened in Paris, John wanted a war, found purpose in it. He always had.

A child shrieked in delight as its mother hoisted it up into her arms. John hadn't said much about children; if he liked them, wanted them. He watched as the woman kissed the squirming babe, and tried to imagine John doing the same, pulling a curly-haired toddler to him, sitting it on his shoulder, letting them play with his beard, his hat. It wasn't an impossible dream. Perhaps John wanted it.

The woman passed and as he looked at her child he felt the feeling wane. It was not impossible, no, but it would not happen. Barring any chance of them even producing a child to raise, much less one of their own, it was not feasible for two men in their time to have a family without raising suspicions. Even if he or John were to pass as a widower, sharing a domicile to lessen the burden of raising a child alone, it would draw attention, attention they could not afford as it was. What life could they offer a child who could only go out at night? What friends could they make, or education? A human raised by parents who never aged – the idea was patently ridiculous.

And yet…perhaps they could do it. John and he had been on the slow road to recovery since Switzerland, licking the wounds that Norway, China, the poppy, Moriarty, had wrought. It had been a hard century for them, more or less fraught with arguments and turbulence, layers of turmoil and troubles that seemed to overcome them at every turn. But they were coming back – or they were, until Paris. He knew John had never sired another, yet he suspected that deep down he wished to, or perhaps even have a child of his own, but he couldn't be sure; he'd never asked him the question out loud.

John would be a good father, as he was a good partner, a good man. He himself, however, might come with difficulties, but he could not say that the idea was without merit…

"Word from Russia is that war is coming."

He looked up, glancing at the man who sat across from him at the table.

"You're late. What kept you?"

"What is it always, darling," Moriarty replied, taking his hat off and hanging it off the chair. "People. These little beasts."

"I believe it's your move first."

"Standard rules?"

"No clocks."

Moriarty sighed. "If you insist." He pushed the centermost white pawn forwards slowly, with a pointed finger.

"How are you so certain that war is imminent?"

"There are over 400 men in the duma, in a rapidly crumbling empire that are desperate to gorge themselves still while the country starves. Where do you think?"

"Been reading Marx, I see."

"Mmm. The man has his points. But you know I don't involve myself with their petty fights. One will win, won't they, and one will lose. We've seen this countless times before; we know how this works. I'm quite surprised your brother is abroad in this trying time."

Sherlock considered the board, then moved his matching pawn against Moriarty's.

"Mycroft is currently involving himself in the war efforts." He answered dryly. "England calls upon her loyal son once again."

"Will he accept the knighthood?"

"I don't see why not. He's accepted the other five."

Moriarty moved a knight forward, behind and to the right of his pawn. Sherlock responded by matching the move with another pawn.

"Philador." Moriarty smiled. "Your strategy never changes; one of your weaknesses." He sniffed. "And how is dear John? I trust he's written to you about the session. Milyukov is stirring passions again; I can only assume the monk will be dead by the end of the year, and revolution will follow, though I think our dear Khlyst will be harder to kill than most expect."

He didn't rise to the bait. "Your concern is heartwarming, as ever. John has responded well after he destroyed your latest gambit for my affections."

"You always misunderstand me, darling. It's not your affections I'm after – it's your attention." Moriarty replied coolly, moving another pawn forwards next to the center.

"You'll never keep it, I'm afraid. Any distractions you can manage are nothing to me in comparison to John Watson, a fact you are well aware of."

"Maybe. Maybe one day you'll turn around and he won't be there."

Sherlock hummed. He made his move. "John is far stronger than you give him credit for. I thought perhaps you would start learning from your mistakes. Threatening his life because of his importance to me – your strategy never changes either."

"One never knows with old dogs and new tricks." Moriarty grinned, the dullness in his eyes brightening into a fevered gleam as he leaned forward excitedly. "What do you think it would take for me to get to him after all these years?" He asked with a manic smile. "What do you think I wouldn't do?"

Sherlock considered him blandly for a moment. "You would use John by proxy. I can only assume you would torture him, hold him hostage, use him against others and weaken his sense of self through his own feelings of guilt and self-hatred. I think there's very little you wouldn't do if it meant getting my attention."

The other man laughed, leaning back in his chair. " _Mein Königreich für ein Pferd_!" He shouted, drawing a few confused looks from passerby.

"Why haven't you done it?" Sherlock asked, keeping his eyes on the board as he countered, capturing a rook but leaving his remaining knight open.

"Trouble in paradise, then?"

"You've had ample opportunity." He said, ignoring the barb. "I can't imagine our whereabouts have been a secret."

"No, I can't say they have been. Harriet made quite a scene in Paris."

"She loves theatrics; I'm sure you can sympathize."

"How do you know I haven't made my move already?" Moriarty asked, taking the knight.

"I don't." Sherlock answered, neglecting to mention the bond that was humming between them, a thousand miles apart. He assumed that Moriarty knew it was there, but not having one himself, had no insight on how they truly worked. "You could have him bound and trussed in your wardrobe around the corner and I would be none the wiser."

"Flattery gets you everywhere, my dear. To answer your previous question: after our fall, had he known I survived, I'm sure your husband would've done everything in his power to fish me out and rip me apart again. The one reason that I have not done the same to him is because it's not quite time yet. I am waiting for…let us call it…maximum impact. I want you to _feel_ it." He hissed.

Sherlock did not react; he moved his rook to the other end of the board. "You know I would feel John's loss keenly, should I lose him. He's my mate. Naturally, I would be attached to him."

"You don't get it, darling." Moriarty said, shaking his head. "I will take him from you, make no mistake. But I won't do it now, when you're so far apart. I will do it when you're together, when you think that you have finally gotten the peace that you misguidedly believe you deserve. None of us deserve peace. We need blood, violence, violation. There is no happy ending, and certainly not for you, Sherlock Holmes, but I want you to be happy, and I want you to lose it in the exact moment when you believe it will last. That will be your great tragedy, and I will be its harbinger."

"You think rather a lot of yourself, then."

"I'm right. I know I'm right. _You_ know I'm right. You will fight with him, or be separated, and he will come back to you because he wants to help you, because he _loves_ you," Moriarty spat. "And you will finally realize that you want to be with him unhindered, and then I will take him from you. And it will be wondrous to behold, and you will finally come to me the way you should have all along: in penitent wrath, because you knew all along I would do this. You will want to destroy me, and I will let you. That is, simply, all I ever wanted. I am, and will remain, the albatross around that gorgeous neck of yours."

Sherlock glanced down at the board; only a few pieces remained: a king and a rook to each of them, plus Moriarty's still-centered pawn, unmoved since the game began. He moved the rook up.

"John is not a fixed point. One of his merits is his ability to be unpredictable."

"He's a pawn, darling." Moriarty sighed. "He can't go backwards. You'll never have him back the way you did before."

Sherlock frowned. "Irene told you."

Moriarty pushed his rook forward. "Naturally."

"Then you already know what happened."

"I can't say I was surprised." Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "You fell much faster than I had anticipated."

"Inserting Irene into a period of difficulty was, I'm sure, irresistible. You do love playing house."

"You're much better at it than I am. I really did think Johnny would leave you once and for all."

"Don't call him that." Sherlock said lowly.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "A dog will answer to anything. I suppose he heard his master calling and came to heel."

"If I were John's master, you would be long dead."

"Mmm, well I suppose I'd better thank him for his generosity. Or would you call ripping my limbs off one by one mercy?"

"I would say that's more like justice."

"Oh, of course. The third wheel in your relationship." Moriarty scoffed, joining his hands under the fur muffler. "There are a great many things I know, but your attachment to your pet does not rank among them. He's a plain little thing. Rather boring."

"To you, perhaps."

"Most certainly to me. Even with his meager surprises I can't manage a pinch of excitement for him. Would love to hear him scream, though. Or even better – I'd love to see him in war. That's his natural habitat, wouldn't you say? I'd love to watch him fight a losing battle. That would be magnificent."

Sherlock said nothing, and played his last move. Moriarty sighed.

"Well that's stalemate, isn't it, darling? I'm afraid I'm a little famished." He stood and Sherlock followed suite. "Late for dinner, you know. Until next time, Sherlock Holmes," the man said, tipping his hat at him before turning away and walking back through the park.

Sherlock stood there for a long moment, watching as Moriarty walked away. It would be so easy to end it, all of this…a simple snap of the neck and he would crumple in the snow like a doll—

The diminishing figure turned suddenly, a few meters away, and called out to him: " _Sehe den Osten nach Neuigkeiten, meine liebe_! _Auf Wiedersehen_!"

—But the game was still on, and as long as John remained in St. Petersburg, a pawn on the board, Moriarty would not allow their game to end. He had failsafes in place, should he be killed: John would be executed on false charges, either by the covenant or by man, or ripped apart in the night, or disappeared, or something imaginably worse.

He reset the pieces on the board and buttoned his coat. It was late, but the telegram office nearby was, fortuitously, open all night.

-/-

 **Moika Palace, Petrograd, Russian Empire**

 **November 1916**

" _Je ne pas comprends_." John said to the man sitting on the plush divan across from him. Snow was falling gently against the night outside the insulated windows, blanketing the courtyards and carried onwards by the dark waters of the Moyka.

"It's quite simple," the man replied, "You are my helper. I need your help."

"I wouldn't call myself your _helper_ , Felix Felixovich. I'm not your servant."

"No," the prince agreed, "you're not, are you? But you are sworn by duty to serve the royal family, and that includes myself, last I checked."

"What would you have me do then? You know I can't be seen with you during the day."

"All the better, my dear. This plan calls for night anyways. Now, I feel I must say before we begin that your given English name will not do, nor would your Russian patronymic, Ivan Galenovich. It gives you away far too easily, even if your accent is nearly perfect. Your people in London tell me to give you a false name to use among our cohorts and friends of mixed company. Would you like to hear my suggestion?"

"Of course." John nodded.

"It is the name of someone I met when I attended university in Oxford, a house painter I hired from time to time – Oswald Rayner. Do you like it?"

"I don't think it matters one way or the other if I like it, Highness. If it pleases you, I'll use it."

Felix stepped up to him, laying a slim hand on his shoulder as he stared down into his eyes. The prince was tall and whipcord thin, and his blue gaze reminded him of someone he couldn't afford to think about at the moment.

"It pleases me." He said simply. "Follow me, if you will."

John stood, trailing after the prince as they left the salon, walking through the vaulted, ornate halls of the palace; something in the corners of his eyes was always gilded.

"You are well aware that if you were to ask for anything that catches your eye, _Jean_ , I would give it to you gladly."

"That's very kind of you, Highness."

"Felix, please. Perhaps one day you might even call me Bébé."

 _Unlikely_ , John thought, but let the man believe what he would.

"That's very kind of you, Felix. But I can't say that I want for much, if anything."

"No?" The man asked, turning to him. The new electric lights in the hall gave his fine golden hair a white glow. "Everybody wants something, my friend – a lesson I learned early and thoroughly. There is nothing a piece of gold or a good word might get you."

John smiled somberly. "I believe that the things I want most are unobtainable at the moment."

"You're speaking of love, then."

"More or less."

"Love has its prices." Felix began as they climbed the grand staircase, footsteps muffled by the lush carpet. "I'm not much for whores, but I'm sure they would come calling for you, men and women alike. A handsome man, a gentleman, and with money. What more could they want?"

John smiled tightly. "It's not whores I'm after."

"Ah!" The prince exclaimed. "Who is this paramour of yours, then? Someone I know?"

"No, I can't say you've ever met. They're…quite private."

"Then where might I send any tokens of gratitude for keeping my top advisor's bed warm on lonely nights?"

John paused, licking at his lips in thought before offering the truth: "Vienna."

"Vienna," the man repeated, laughing. "Austrian women are as beautiful as a snowy night under the stars."

"Yes, I've heard that."

The prince turned to him then, stopping on the landing, a look of something akin to delight on his face. "And they also say the men there are as handsome as mountains."

"I've heard that, too." John said with a raised eyebrow, but Felix let the topic fall away, changing the subject as they turned onto the third floor.

"I'm afraid I haven't been entirely truthful with you, _Jean_. I have made the terrible faux pas of inviting guests over and making them await our arrival."

John was unsurprised. "Well, I hope we haven't kept them too long then."

The prince smiled at him, stopping before a set of two great doors. "You, _Jean_ , are a paragon of virtue. Please, after you."

John entered the room, one of the smaller libraries. A roaring fire was already banked in the hearth, its heat billowing throughout the room. Three figures sat on the sofas; three faces turned to him as he walked in, the firelight casting shadows over each. Two of them he recognized, the Grand Duke, and the monarchist, Vladimir, hawkeyed and peering at him through his round glasses.

"Gentlemen." John greeted them, bowing his head, waiting for the prince to make the formal introductions.

"This is our friend, Oswald Rayner, from the British Secret Intelligence Services." Felix said, sweeping into the room. "I've told you of our correspondence as of late. This," he indicated the monarchist, "is Vladimir Mitrofanovich Purishkevich. The man to his left is the lawyer, Vasily Alekseyevich Maklakov, and of course you know the Grand Duke, Dmitri Pavlovich."

"A pleasure." John nodded, shaking each of their hands before going to sit in one of the armchairs opposite.

"I met with your Mr. Hoare not a month ago." Vladimir began. "I believe that's how you made the acquaintance of our prince, here?"

"No," John answered, "Actually, we were classmates at Oxford. I was visiting Moscow on classified business when Sir Hoare put Felix Felixovich and myself in contact again."

"And you know in full what we are expected to do?"

He nodded.

"Good. I do not wish to undermine your professional expertise, but I wished to be certain we are beginning on the right foot, as they say."

"How are we to do it?" The lawyer asked.

"Is that not why we are here tonight?" The Grand Duke said, seeming rather bored. "To determine that very thing?"

"It is." The prince answered. "Short of shooting him like a dog in the street – which is more than someone like him deserves – I propose we do it here."

"Here?" The monarchist yelped. "Are you mad? What if we're heard?"

"Where else is safer but your own home?" Felix responded. "I think we should use poison."

"Poison is a woman's weapon." The Grand Duke scoffed. "Let's just stab him and be done with it."

"Et tu Brute?" Felix replied sarcastically. "If we knife him to death, don't you think it will be rather messy? I'll never have the carpet clean again."

The lawyer piped up: "I believe if we take the French into question—"

"Yes, we all know how much you love the French, Vasily Alekseyevich." Vladimir said, exasperated.

"What are you implying?"

"You know plenty." The monarchist spat back.

"Gentlemen," John interfered, "there are bigger things at hand. If you must, continue your argument outside."

The two quieted, chastened.

"Now then: I agree with Felix." John said. "Poison may be cowardly, but it will do the work, don't you agree? It is easy, simple…the man will be dead in ten minutes flat without any fuss."

"What if we strangled him?" The monarchist suggested.

"Have you ever strangled a man?" John asked. "He'll shit himself. Good luck explaining that to the servants."

"Speaking of," the lawyer said, turning to Felix, "are you certain they can be trusted? I have a hard time believing that anything occurring under your roof will remain a secret between the five of us."

"I have absolute faith in them." The prince responded. "Any word that escapes about what will happen here will be from one of us, not from them. They are loyal to the Tsar—"

"The Tsar is loyal to his wife, and the Empress to Grigori Yefimovch." Grand Duke Dmitri cut in. "We must ensure they are loyal to _you_."

"I trust them with my secrets. They've been very good so far, wouldn't you agree Dmitri?" Felix said, and the tips of the Grand Dukes ears reddened.

"Very well. Trust who you will. Where will we do it?"

"I'm renovating one of the cellar rooms into a salon of sorts. It's quite secluded; we can do it there."

"What if the poison fails?" The lawyer asked after a moment. "We need to be prepared for every outcome."

Felix shrugged. "So, we will be armed then. One man against five? I wouldn't bet on those odds."

"He's smart," John countered. "He won't come here if he doesn't have a good reason. We can't have him suspicious before he even gets here."

"He has a great interest in my wife. I met with him recently at Golovina House; he professed to me many times that he wishes to meet her. She's in Crimea at the moment, but he need not know that."

"How will we get the poison?" The lawyer asked. "It does not have to be said that it shouldn't be traced to any of us at any rate."

"I know of an army doctor on the hospital train." The monarchist said. "One Doctor Lazovert. He sympathizes; I will entrust the task to him."

The men fell into a contemplative silence, rolling the idea in full around, searching for flaws in the immediate plan.

The Grand Duke slapped his hands against his knees in finality. "Enough debate. It's settled. We will kill the man a month hence, agreed? Yes? Let us toast."

The monarchist Purishkevich poured an equal measure of madeira into their waiting glasses, raising his in salutation, the light of the fire refracting against the red wine. John felt his teeth push downwards, piercing his lip as he struggled to toast without opening his mouth. He should have eaten before coming – he could hear the strong pulse coming from the men's thighs, reverberating through their thin, mortal bodies, begging to be loosed—

"To the blood of the madman!" The lawyer called, and John heard himself echo it too, a chorus of them, cheering at the idea:

"To the blood!"

-/-

A knock at the door. John hurried to pack away his chalice and canteen in their prim velvet box before going to open it.

"Telegram for you, sir." One of the maids said, curtsying as she handed him the envelope.

"Thank you, Anna."

He sat on his bed and carefully peeled the thing open; he had already known who it was from, yet the familiar spider scrawl always sent a thrill through him.

 _For John_

Barmy idiot, always addressing it like that…He froze as he opened it, reading the short, sparse note:

 _Anichkov Bridge. Midnight._

-/-

The bells of St. Simeon began to ring the hour, followed shortly by St. Catherine's.

The electric tram skirted through the night under the streetlamps, shunting through the cold air as it passed on. His breath steamed, only because he knew that if it didn't people would notice.

"Right on time." A voice said behind him. "As punctual as ever, Rayner."

He turned, looking down the bridge at the other man as he walked up to him, hands buried in his long coat, sweeping against the snow.

"There's a hotel nearby." His husband smiled, coming up to him. "You owe me a drink."

-/-

John stared at him silently as the waiter served their drinks, though both weren't inclined to so much as touch them. He could feel the tension radiating through their bond, pulled tight like a whipcord for the past few days, as if Sherlock was trying to draw them closer by sheer force of will alone.

" _Chto proizoshlo_?" He asked, the din of the hotel bar scattered in conversation and a rather raucous band of navy officers.

Sherlock frowned. "What's made you think something's happened?" He replied in Russian, his intonation just subtle enough to not draw suspicion.

John gave him a look.

"I believe our dear friend is going to come after you. Imminently." He said slowly.

"Really?" John replied, looking supremely unperturbed. "And what made you think that?"

"Because I met with him in Vienna." His mate told him, and John was shocked for a moment by his honesty; he had expected many things to come out of Sherlock's mouth, but certainly not the truth.

"You met with him in Vienna." John repeated, dumbstruck.

"It's become a rather regular occurrence. We meet once a month for chess in the park."

"I'm hearing you correctly then: you are meeting with the creature that tried on multiple occasions – and nearly succeeded, mind – to kill you. Is that right?"

"That's correct."

John pushed himself against the back of his chair, glancing about the room as if it might confirm that he was going insane. The officers were still toasting; the couples were chatting; men were smoking; his husband was sitting across from him, telling him he met with his murderer. All was as it should be, so it seemed as if _he_ were the anomaly.

"How did you get here?"

"How else?" Sherlock shrugged. "I took the train from Warsaw."

"There's a war on, in case you've forgotten."

"I covered some of the distance myself. Honestly, Rayner, it's like you're not pleased to see me."

John stood, lifting his glass and downing its entire contents before turning towards the valet, taking his coat from him. He shrugged it on, Sherlock watching calmly, and stormed out into the snowy night.

His mate sighed, moving to pay the bill before following him.

He caught up with him quickly near Manezhnaya Square, the two of them alone in the cobblestoned yard, fountain bubbling weakly in the chilly air, half frozen over.

He switched to French so if they were overheard they might not be understood.

"You seem to misunderstand the concept of _you_ owing _me_ a drink—"

"Oh, _fuck you_ , Sherlock Holmes!" John shouted into the quiet night, rounding on him as the sound echoed across the square, carried against the electric trams, the columns of the stoic, shuttered buildings, the lights of the city glowing against them.

"I've done something to upset you." He concluded. "Was it Moriarty?"

"Yes! Yes, of course it was bloody _Moriarty_ – do you remember what he did to you? Do you remember what I did to _him_? How can you stand sharing the same planet as that thing, much less sit across from him and play _chess_ as if the two of you are old friends!"

"I wasn't aware you still felt so strongly about him."

"Why wouldn't I? It's only been twenty years!" John laughed, a bit manically. "Why don't you?"

"He has information that I want."

"And that forgives all of this, does it? All that's worth you throwing yourself over the falls and taking him with you, making me _watch_ , making me think you were dead, all of our kind that I slaughtered on the shore that day…I never wanted you to see me like that, like the monster I used to be, and it's like none of it ever even mattered, because you think he's so _fun_ to talk to."

"John Watson," Sherlock began, straightening himself to his full height as he clapped a gloved hand on his mate's shoulder; a great red feeling rose up through their bond, primal and full of teeth. "You have no idea what you're talking about. You're upset; your reason is faulty and your judgment clouded. I did not travel a thousand miles through a warzone to gloat in your face about how thoroughly I may or may not have dealt with what happened to us in Switzerland. This is not about that, do you understand? I know you have suffered, and you have no idea what I would endure if it meant you would forget, that it hadn't happened and would never happen again, but, kindly, pull your head out of your arse and listen to me. I wanted to know what information he has on _you_ , so I can better protect you from him, and to be frank it makes me sick to even think of him; I do not relish his attention or his conversation. Now, do I have your attention?"

John paused a moment, then nodded.

"Good." He took his hand away and the redness lessened, pulsing beneath the waves. "He said war was coming here. Does that seem like an accurate assessment to you?"

John thought for a moment, thought about who he had met, what he had seen, the words he heard on the street and servant's quarters of palaces alike.

"Yes. I believe it will."

"You're going to kill the monk. Rasputin."

"He's not really a monk." John corrected.

"So you don't deny it."

"Maybe we will, alright, but not if you keep blabbing it out like that. Is that how you knew my name?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John sighed, rolling his eyes and looking heavenward as if some divine intervention might ever stop the Holmes brothers from meddling in other people's affairs.

"Mycroft, then. Of course. If this whole thing was his idea, why am I getting the feeling that you don't approve?"

"I think it's going to be a great mistake."

"Why is that?"

Sherlock leaned in close, lips brushing his ear as he spoke lowly: "He's one of us. Moriarty wants him. I'm sure of it."

John could hear the bells chime another hour. They shouldn't be arguing like this, out in the snow where anyone could hear.

"Come on. I live close by. We need to talk somewhere private."

-/-

The night porter let them pass without comment as the two men emerged from the snowy night, silently walking through the courtyard to John's rooms, gifted to him by orders of the prince.

"Are you hungry?" John asked, handing Sherlock his coat to hang as he went to start a fire in the grate.

"A bit." His mate admitted, glancing around the room as if he hadn't noticed every little detail the moment he stepped inside. Idly, he picked up a manuscript on John's desk, flipping through the pages. "I haven't eaten since Warsaw…I didn't know you're translating for Tsvetaeva now; how is she?"

"She's well…she knows what's coming. I think everybody does, in one regard or another. Now, tell me how you know Grishka Yefimovich is one of our kind."

"Something Moriarty told me…he referred to him as a Khlyst and said he would be harder to kill than most assumed."

"There's no other proof?"

"I have nothing concrete, but the theory suits the facts: he studied in Verkhoture, the seat of the Russian covenant. The Khylsts train their members in matters spiritual and metaphysical – you know this is true; you've seen the manuals. We _know_ people who have done it, hell, they even taught Mycroft how to plomb auras and manipulate essences. It's quite possible he was trained in the art of the thrall, and now influences the Empress and his followers."

"And how are you so sure you're not making excuses for human weaknesses?" John countered. "Her son is sick, and this is the only man who's ever done anything to calm them about it."

Sherlock frowned. "Why are you so determined to prove me wrong?"

"Who's the one who insists on proof and facts before conclusions?" John countered, going over to his cabinet and unlocking it, pulling out the velvet box. "I'm not saying it's baseless, Sherlock, but you're going to have to give me more than your word."

He put a glass chalice upright on the desk near Sherlock, but left the canteen capped and sealed, going to sit across from him.

"Don't be like that." Sherlock chided.

"Like what?"

"Don't be like _that_ , either. I can feel you, remember? – your obstinance is a flimsy defense. If you can talk to anyone on this abandoned rock, you can talk to me."

John sighed. "We have had this conversation a thousand times – probably a million times more after, and I don't like always bringing it up. But…when we're apart, it's usually because our relationship is static. It doesn't go anywhere. That's not a bad thing – knowing that you're out there keeps me sane – but don't you feel that nothing ever changes? Don't you look out the window some nights and find that what you see doesn't make you feel better or worse than the day before?"

Sherlock's frown had deepened as John continued to talk. "You didn't tell me you were feeling this way again," and then the unspoken thought: _why didn't you tell me?_

"Vienna seemed like it was working for you."

"And this…you feel that none of this is helping. How long?"

"I haven't felt better since Switzerland." John admitted, and Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach.

 _'He can't go backwards. You'll never have him back the way you did before…'_

"What do you want to do?" He asked, trying and failing to sound calm. "Now – right now? Tell me, and we will do it."

"That's the thing, Sherlock," John shook his head, "I don't know what I want. I thought this would help, especially after Paris…I thought being required again would help me."

"But I require you. All the time."

"It's not the same. You forget I'm there."

"Funny; as I seem to recall, our connection allows you to share my feelings, not my thoughts. Where's your proof?"

Briefly, he remembered a small, cramped room, the snow howling outside as John leapt from the windowsill, barefoot, with a golden chain in his hands.

"Oh, John...still?"

"I think it will always be there in some capacity. I can't forget it. Not really…" He sighed, his voice shaking when he spoke next. "I don't want to feel like this."

 _"You'll never have him back the way you did before…"_

Sherlock stood, beginning to pace about the tiny chamber. "We both are aware that I am not the best communicator of feeling, John, but I will try to be now. I need you to tell me what I can do for you, how I can help you, how to fix this."

John smiled at him, and he hated it – it was not a true smile, but one saturated in sadness.

"Well, there's the rub: I think this is something I have to do alone. You belong in Vienna at the moment, there's no arguing that. I've had…a harder time belonging anywhere, but something within me is telling me this is right, that I'm here for a purpose. I don't know what it is yet, but if it's killing the monk, then so be it."

"You said he wasn't a monk."

John rolled his eyes. "Of all things to harp on…fine, he's not a monk. Sherlock, this is my roundabout way of telling you that this thing will happen with or without your misgivings. If you end up being right about all of this, then it's my mistake to make."

Sherlock stood still, hands on his hips as he looked down at his husband. "I feel…that something terrible is going to happen. Perhaps it's due to what Moriarty said, or Mycroft's reports; the war is not going well, I'm sure you know that. This empire is buckling under the weight of what its people need. I will not have you be a casualty to an indifferent history."

"I'm not going to die, Sherlock."

"You don't _know_ that. No one knows that."

"I trust myself and my abilities to get out of a tight spot. This isn't exactly our first time dipping our toes in a revolutionary environment. Remember France?"

"Not particularly." He huffed. "You remember, I was drunk most of the time. And of course I trust you John, but at the same time I am aware of the lengths Moriarty will go to, to ensure my downfall by proxy of you. I just want you to be careful, and nothing in this plan of yours reassures me that you're not putting yourself in danger because it makes you feel alive. You are at your best in war, a fact I am tempted to both admire and denigrate. Don't allow it to be the end of you."

John stood, walking slowly over to his mate, who stared down at him through hazy grey eyes, brightened like quicksilver by hunger. He lifted his hands and placed them over his breast, where his heart would be beating if it was still up to the task, his lungs pushing air in and out with each nonexistent breath.

"I don't think a day goes by without a voice that sounds like you appears in my head and tells me off for my erroneous logic or congratulates me when I'm especially clever. I think of you constantly, and when I'm not I know that I will be soon. I know you feel the same way; you'd never have to say another kind word to me again, and I'd still know it. I know you're worried, obviously, and you have every right to be…but you asked me how you could help, and I'll tell you: forget about me. Just for now."

Sherlock sucked in a breath he no longer needed. "John—"

He held a hand up to silence him before laying it back down on his chest. "You work so well when you have nothing holding you back, and I dare you to tell me I'm wrong when I say that in the time it took you to travel here, to talk with me, you might've found another link in whatever bizarre chain Moriarty is making. You would have been one bit closer to unraveling him."

Sherlock didn't respond, said nothing, because it was most likely the truth; a two-day long absence he'd thought he could afford was now looking more and more like something perhaps Moriarty had wanted: for him to come running to John when he feared for his life, just as he'd said; _"I will do it when you're together…"_

He looked down at John, John who trusted him, John who loved him, and felt as if he had failed, but at what he wasn't quite sure. Their relationship had been a string of failures of late, ever since Norway, maybe even before that, and a century had not been long enough to set them back on course. Perhaps this was it then: perhaps they were travelling into deeper waters, diverting with the currents that pulled them apart.

"I don't want you to be the price I pay for my errors in judgment." He said quietly.

"I'm not too concerned with that, darling. I'm stuck with you, and you with me."

Was he going to cry? No – but it had been years since he felt this, the crush, the totality of a weight he neither wanted to cast off or continue to endure.

"I've never seen you as a burden, John. You understand? Never – not in Norway, not in Paris, not now, not ever. You are the singular greatest thing the human race has ever done for me."

John smiled, and there it was again – the sadness. "Is this your way of making yourself feel better about leaving?"

He grabbed at John's hands if only to do something with them, either to throw them off or take him closer. "But I don't _want_ to leave you, you stupid man. Stop telling me I have to go."

"You don't have to go yet." John said solemnly. "The night's young, and you haven't finished chastising me."

This – this he knew, and he was grateful to John for guiding him back into shallower waters. John was all, he was gravity, constantly pulling him back into alignment, always there; an untransmutable force in a changing world. He wanted him around, always, wanted him there asleep in the morning and awake at night.

He'd said he thought Sherlock belonged in Vienna but his logic was flawed; he belonged wherever John was, as John did with him, but he had no means with which to convince him. There no war to be fought and won in love, no battlefield to claim, no dead to bury. John would win no glory, no medals, no commendations, for loving him. He would only ever earn that love in return, which was less of a reward than it was a reflex, something that was expected. He needed to be challenged. This, at present, was what he needed to grow past the ceiling that had been lowering down on him since Norway.

They both understood that Sherlock had accepted what John was saying; that he must forget him, focus on the task at hand, so they might become greater than what they once were, might finally live in peace without the threat of death or separation at every turn.

"Come on," John smiled, this time full of love, holding out his hand. "Let's eat, and I can tell you all about my nefarious plot, and you can poke every hole in it you can think of."

-/-

He woke in Vienna, in a bed less full than it should be. He'd only needed space for one, and so there was space for one, but he traced the familiar path of the missing body anyways, feeling at once that it had been a mistake to go in the first place and a mistake to leave.

John had seen him out at the empty porter's booth, barely bothering to dress for the weather, his hair mussed and cowlicked. They'd had many partings just like this, in the lightening hours of dawn, one of them stepping outwards and the other staying put; they were well practiced in public goodbyes.

Their private partings didn't vary much either, and Sherlock both loved and hated them. Whenever they were put back together it made leaving all the more difficult for the both of them, and yet they couldn't resist the pull of it, water to tide, tide to moon. Perhaps it was the dramatics, perhaps it was the catharsis of tragedy, perhaps it was the darker, the more tender, and the infinitely more vulnerable side of love that made coming together worth the separation.

As he lay in bed, naked and alone, he had the distinct notion that it had been worth it to see John after all; he had one more memory of their time shared than the two of them solitary, and he could feel on the other end of the bond as John dreamed of them together, half influenced by the night they'd shared and half a whorl of color and unconscious drawing.

He took stock of his body bit by bit, and noted that he still ached; he often took but had no issue taking John in turn, and the feeling was unusual but not unwelcome. There were many things he would do for John, and John for him, and no limit to what they might do together; John really was the more creative of the two of them, even after all these years, all their time they spent within and without one another.

He looked out the window as a light snow fell behind the curtain, frosting the papered pane. He could see the vague shapes of people below, shopping, coming back from work, hurrying home under the streetlamps for dinner. He wondered if, given a different history, he and John would be like that, afforded a simple domesticity, uncomplicated by circumstance or lifespan; he wondered if every day they spent together might be more meaningful, being one day less in a very short life. Perhaps, but something was telling him that an eternity was more potent a thing – one lifetime was easy to sign away to another, but an endless amount of years took no less commitment.

He stood and stretched; one of the things he'd found himself missing was the way his skin would pimple under the cold air, although most other bodily reactions remained the same. A bite mark over his heart tightened against the cold, not quite healed, pierced through deeply by sharp teeth.

As he dressed he gathered his thoughts, putting a plan to action, lingering on those last few moments before he honored John's request to forget him completely. By the time he shrugged on his coat and stepped out into the night, he wore no ring, he had no one to love, and had no memory of how he'd gotten that bite, right over his heart.

There was work to be done.

-/-

 **Moika Palace, Petrograd, Russian Empire**

 **December 1916**

"You know, I do wish you'd told me your love had visited you earlier this month; I wanted to shake his hand."

John nearly choked on the food he was pretending to eat and the prince smiled wryly at him across the table.

"You don't have to deny it, Rayner. I'm inclined to certain proclivities myself. I believe I told you of how I lost my mother's prize string of pearls when I fled from a rowdy band of officers, masquerading as a woman? Father was terribly upset, but I – I'd never felt so good in all my life. I was halfway home before I realized I'd left them next to the empty bottles of champagne, lying among the corks."

"I'm not ashamed of him." John said calmly, setting his fork and knife down. "But I trust you won't tell anyone. They wouldn't understand."

"No, they wouldn't, would they?" The prince hummed, examining a piece of whitefish as he speared a potato onto his fork. "People can be so…limited in their scope of self-expression. It's rather boring."

"I agree. When do the others get here?"

"Within the hour. Emil is bringing the car around." He glanced at John. "Are you sure you want to drive? You can remain here and stage the party."

"They'll be alright here without me." John answered firmly. "You need protection – he might know about the plan, and I don't like the idea of you alone in a room with him."

Felix raised an eyebrow then shrugged. "Suit yourself, darling." He checked his watch, just as the ornate clock on the mantle rang midnight. "Time to go. Any last words, then, Rayner?"

John considered the request carefully – what might mark this occasion, the most important night, perhaps, in modern history? What they might do, what might go wrong, what might go right, the reverberations felt throughout time…

"Make sure he's dead."

-/-

 **Vienna, Austro-Hungarian Empire**

 **February 1917**

The tall man always ordered one black coffee, which he nursed all night and well into the early morning. The staff was perplexed by the order at first – surely, he wanted another? Or got tired of the drink when it went cold? But he never did, and they learned not to ask.

He left them tips under the saucer, the bill folded into interesting little shapes, and he sat alone had throughout the long night, reading or staring at one of the chess boards, as if playing against himself. Occasionally, someone might challenge him to a game, and the staff would take bets on how quickly he might beat them; they were usually correct, and in a small matter of moves he would win the board.

Sometimes he had a friend with him, a little fellow, with slick black hair; a sharp dresser, who favored the long, dark coats professors wore. He didn't stay long, maybe a few hours at the most, and all they did was play chess. They barely even talked, and when they did, they said the oddest things.

"How did you like that trick with the trains?" A server heard the professor ask as he cleared the tables.

"They never do run on time, do they?" The man answered, eyes on the chess board.

And later, when a couple say down near them: "There's nothing but old men and farm boys left in Petrograd. There's talk of burning the monk. I'm still quite cross with you about that, you know…"

The professor's accent was odd as well; his German was excellent, but certainly not native. It was more difficult to tell with his friend – he hardly said a word, other than to order his coffee or quietly respond to the other man.

The tall man hummed as he reviewed the board. "'I held the sword, and he did run on it.'"

"Speaking of swords," Moriarty said, leaning forward as the server passed, "How is dear John? I do hope you let him know how much I admired his work."

"He's well, despite your best attempts."

"My best attempts are nothing compared to human ineptitude. In my wildest dreams I could never have hoped for this to happen – trying to take down one of ours with _cake_? Delightful. Utterly delightful."

"John knew it wouldn't work."

"Hmm, and how did he know _that_ , I wonder? Was it a little bird that told him? Quite a long way to fly from here to Petrograd."

"News travels fast if you know how to send it."

"Oh, don't play coy. We both know you went to see him. Honestly, it's not like you have the most subtlety when your pets are involved."

"What can I say?" Sherlock smiled as a server passed. "I missed my dog."

Moriarty smiled back, his grin widening. "We are so attached to our pets."

"Quite." Sherlock agreed, moving his remaining rook. "I believe that's checkmate." He said, picking up the king and setting it aside with the other pieces he'd captured.

Moriarty tutted. "Oh, Sherlock. Didn't anyone tell you it was rude to take my last player before I resigned? You're rather a sore winner, aren't you?"

"My apologies," Sherlock answered, picking the piece back up and placing it on the board. "I do believe it's your turn."

Moriarty smiled, turning the king around with the tip of his finger.

"A new game, then."

-/-

 **Arkhangelsk Oblast, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic**

 **September 1918**

The last of the sun was dying out as the battalion crested over the snowy hill; the sun set early this far north, and darkness reigned more often than not.

The river blackened under the rising night; he could still see quite well, but he knew the rest of the soldiers would have a harder time of it. John stopped, unstopping his canteen as if he needed water, and took a long drink, the liquid cool and thick from the snow and ice.

Up head, the rest of the men were gathering in the small town square, if it could be called that. Smoke rose up from the low lines of blockhouses, carrying the smell of firewood, coffee, salt, a welcome sensation in the growing cold.

He hitched his rifle up, stowing his canteen away in his jacket, and continued onwards.

The post office would be crowded at this time of day, telegrams and letters rushed forwards from the end of the railway; due to the weather, the mail only came once a week, save for the needs of commanding officers. Although he hadn't heard word from Sherlock – or, more specifically, his brother – in over a year, some instinct within him was guiding him away from the barracks, towards the mail room.

It was a tiny, ramshackle operation, with little organization and less planning; only one man ran the entire counter, with the help of a few native Russians who spoke little English and sorted the mail accordingly; often, he would feel a leap as mail was delivered to him, only to have it be for someone else. He had begun to hate the sight of the horse-drawn carriage as it rode in, bearing sacks of correspondence, parcels, gifts, because at once he craved news from his husband and feared it.

Yet it seems Sherlock had taken him seriously, and forgot him; he knew he shouldn't lament it, that it was for the greater good, but at times it stung, a particular wound that had nagged at him since the very beginning. It was the greatest flaw of their relationship, that he would be forgotten by the one person who mattered, and yet at this point it was necessary if they were ever going to be together again.

The days passed; it had been nearly two years since they had seen each other face to face – a small amount of time, considering, but the silence over their bond did nothing to help the distance. All communication was closed, had been closed, and would remain so, for their sakes.

He reminded himself of this fact, however cold it was, as he stepped into the post office, overheated from the packed bodies inside. He waited patiently until it was his turn to step up to the counter and give his name – another false one, like the scores of them before.

Perhaps it was because of the overwhelming reflex he'd had to go there, perhaps it was some otherworldly intuition bred from years of constant, alert surveillance, but he was decidedly unsurprised to find a letter waiting for him.

He took it from the post worker and signed for it, waiting until he had crossed the snowy yard and entered the relative privacy of his bunk to open it. The paper was of thicker stock than normal, bearing the considerable weight of unspoken wealth.

 _Armistice imminent. King to 7c._

 _\- M_

He stared at the words, printed with careful brevity. It was an old metaphor they had once used, when he'd been employed by Mycroft as a foreign aid: the world was nothing more than a chess board. _7C_ …the Netherlands. The King – well that could mean anything, anyone, but he had a feeling it didn't involve Sherlock; his brother would never refer to him that way. It was someone else, someone important. Not Charles; Austria-Hungary would be out of the war soon after Bulgaria fell, but not in the coming months, they'd want to cling to the hope of victory, and it would not be Italy either – they had no business in the Netherlands. So, it was the Kaiser then, fleeing Germany.

The war, on a large scale, was over. Russia would be mired in its own conflict for a while yet, and he felt little heartened by the Allied presence; it was supremely unorganized, unprepared, and would do little to help the White Army other than to antagonize the Reds. They'd learned nothing from Napoleon; don't invade Russia in the winter, or potentially at all if it could be helped.

He sighed, folding the note and putting it into his jacket next to the canteen. Sherlock didn't know where he was – as far as he was concerned, John was still in Petrograd, wading through the political mire, or he was in Moscow, embedding himself within the Bolsheviks. Mycroft wouldn't have told him, as they both knew Sherlock had forced a promise from him not to re-enlist, and, technically, he hadn't; aide-de-camps didn't have to belong to any certain military, and he thought it best to hide in plain sight – Moriarty would hardly think to check a remote Allied camp surrounded by the Red Army; he would think he was headed to S, to Central Europe, somewhere safe where he could regroup; that was his great flaw, his underestimation of John and his abilities.

If only to have something to do while he thought, he took out his gun kit and began to dismantle his rifle. A fine sheen of ice had grown on it in the cold, and he wiped it down, flecking bits of congealed snow off to melt on the floor.

Sherlock would be furious when he found out – _if_ he found out. He had been right, as usual, when he had said that John needed a battleground to feel useful. After the abysmal event at Moika Palace, John had helped deal with the fallout between the Tsar and the Grand Duke; he and Felix both had been put under house arrest, and outright exile seemed likely. The abdication in March had been the death knell they had all been waiting for, and they left for the Crimea, where he'd seen Felix off onto the Marlborough with his wife and daughter. He knew that returning to Petrograd would mean certain death, especially considering how close he'd been to the royal family, even with a different name.

It had been the first contact with Mycroft he'd had in that new century. The false papers he'd gotten easily enough on his own, but he'd needed a position as far away from bureaucracy as possible, and Mycroft had been too happy to help, in exchange for occasional intelligence from the front; John knew he was indispensable, if not for the information he offered than for his importance to Sherlock, and he wasn't afraid to use that fact as leverage to swing himself as close to the war as he could get.

He wouldn't lie: it was exhilarating. He hadn't been near a proper warzone in almost a century, not since Austerlitz. He could admit that he missed it – the smell of powder, the smoke, the thrill of fire. The conditions were as miserable as ever, and he delighted in overthrowing the heavy cloak that a recent life of spoil and luxury had pressed upon him; there was no palace here, no gilded halls, no etiquette, no platitudes. His world was dirty, muddy, reckless. There was no glory in anything, and he could revel in the silent admission that he would rather this life than one of parroted servitude, comfy in a warm bed with nothing to worry about, as he had been in Petrograd. Sherlock had, again, been correct: some part of him had wanted to fail at killing Rasputin. Part of him had been selfish, had wanted a new challenge, and here it was, in full, just as ugly, horrible, and unavoidable as ever.

 _Armistice imminent_. What would he do now? The war here would continue, and he'd had no word from Sherlock on the situation in Vienna. The Allies would almost certainly draw back from Russia now, and his battalion with them. It would be madness not to withdraw, lay low in some Balkan country, go east to China, go somewhere other than here; yet his baser instinct already knew that Mycroft would order him to stay, perhaps go south towards Moscow but not into the city itself. This war's effects would be long-reaching, and the fight bloody; an operative embedded closely to the political capital, who spoke the language like a native, would be valuable, nigh priceless.

Very well: it was settled. Unless he got word otherwise – then Moscow it was.

-/-

 **Piaseczno, Poland**

 **October 1918**

He didn't go to Moscow. Not at first.

"I will not allow it." Sherlock had said, pacing around the room of the small apartment above the train station, rented just that morning.

"I don't think you have much say in the matter," John replied, flipping through his magazine.

His mate whirled on him, brow folded into a deep frown.

"What did he say to you? Tell me everything."

John sighed, bookmarking his page. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the telegram, wrinkled and worn out from travel.

 _"'Armistice imminent. King to 7c. - M_ .'" He read again. Sherlock cursed.

John watched him as he paced. "Calm down. You're going to wear a hole in the floor at this rate."

"Why did he bother summoning all his bloated ubiquity if he comes to _you_ for help? Why you?"

"Ta," John replied, going back to his magazine.

"I mean it, John. Why, of all the people he possibly has at his disposal, would he go to you?"

"Maybe he needs an operative; someone familiar with the land and the politics."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm serious." John added. "You need someone who sounds and acts like a local with this kind of business. Why wouldn't it be us? We've certainly had enough practice."

"If you think for one moment that Mycroft doesn't have perfectly capable agents already in place, then you're being deliberately obtuse."

"Maybe he needs discretion."

"No. Next theory."

"Okay. Maybe he needs someone he trusts."

Sherlock stopped, turning on his heels. "You and I are both perfectly trustworthy—"

"Oh my god," John sighed, suddenly understanding. "You're upset he didn't pick you? Are we in primary school?"

"Of the two of us, I am the one who has more room to be…let's say flexible in the work. Pulling you out of Petrograd was a mistake, although I do agree that you can't go back, not with the current political climate…"

"I'm not going to Petrograd—" John started, steeling himself.

"Yes, John, that's what I just said, do keep up—"

"—Because he's sending me to Moscow."

" _No_." Sherlock hissed, turning on his heels. "I have told him before, a thousand times – I will not allow it. He'd be feeding you to the lions."

"He did it because I asked him to."

"You— _what_?"

"It's where I'm least expected to go, and where I'm needed most. Mycroft's plan—"

"I believe I don't have to remind you again of how idiotic it is to believe in my brother's plans." Sherlock said acerbically. "What became of his last one?"

John bristled. "There were…complications."

"Yes, because as I understand it, your little friend failing to make sure he was properly dead then executing him out in the yard was a _complication_. You knew poison wouldn't work – fine – you had to keep plausible deniability, and you nearly got yourself killed over a waste of blood and bone, a man who would no more thank you than use you as a footstool—"

"I did what I thought was right at the time." John said, not rising to the bait. "Just like now."

"No, you _didn't_!" Sherlock shouted, frustrated. "You told me so yourself – you _knew_ it wasn't going to go well. It was your 'mistake to make', was it not? How often must I watch from the sidelines as you refuse my advice and continue on your own counsel? When will the next mistake be the last?" He seemed to deflate then, sighing heavily. "Going back to Moscow would be suicide. They will find out you worked with the Whites or the Allies soon enough, or Moriarty will find out and conveniently let it slip. This is a dangerous game, John – I know it's not our first, but with every development from this war I feel that if you remain it will be your last, and mine as well. You know as well as I do how our story ends. Together."

The floors of the apartment rattled as a train arrived in the station, making the crockery clatter in their racks and the table creak.

"I don't want to die." John said as the dishes settled and the room fell into silence.

"I know that."

"I believe someone quite clever and rather stubborn once told me 'no one _knows_ that.'"

Sherlock glared at him, souring at his own words used against him. "I am a poor communicator, John, and I don't want to spend what little time we have in person going around in circles. You will have to tell me what it is that you expect you will get by going back into that viper pit, and why it's good enough that I should let you."

"If I were a more contentious man I'd say you can't tell me what to do."

"You're plenty contentious," Sherlock snorted. "And what concerns you concerns me; that was the agreement we made when we bonded, was it not? Now: start with the first point."

"I'd rather the latter; Moran will be at the Seventh Congress of Soviets."

"And you believe you'll, what – assassinate him on the floor?"

"No, but this might be our only chance at taking him out. That leaves Moriarty one fewer general."

"There are no co-conspirators on this?"

"The only reason there was before is because Mycroft found out."

"Ah, I see…you haven't told him your true intentions. Not very sporting of you." Sherlock chastised.

John shrugged. "The less he knows the better. I go in, I get out. No one has to know but us, but I don't think you should go back to your meetings with Moriarty. He'll skin you for a new chessboard after this, I'd think."

"Really, John?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You think I was just playing _chess_ with him for three years? How little you must think of me."

"To use a common phrase of yours, there was no data to extrapolate from. For good reason, too."

"The best." His mate agreed. "No, I didn't spend my time debating the algorithmic possibilities of an eight by eight square, tempting as it may seem. I was dismantling the core structure of his operations, piece by piece; the bribed, the bribers, the middlemen and bureaucrats that make his every effort possible. Most of what remains are insignificant, his muscle and his central chain of command. He has never fully recovered from Switzerland, perhaps thanks to your efforts—" He changed subjects at the look on John's face. "—Nevertheless, he is weak and if we strike now, he will go down far easier, especially without his righthand man."

"How did you manage all that?"

"Persuasion, naturally." Sherlock answered, and didn't elaborate.

A faint whistle of the oncoming train rang in the distance, settling over the quiet night.

"It's all sorted, then?" John asked, hands behind his head as he relaxed against the bedframe.

"I still do not relish the idea of you returning to Moscow…personal feeling aside, it is a plan not without merit."

"Gushing praise, coming from you."

"Yes, well, it doesn't have my brother's paws all over it, and you can be quite determined when you decide to be."

John smiled. "Is that right?" He asked, swinging his legs over the end of the bed as he stood. "Oh, ye of little faith."

"I've been wrong before." Sherlock grinned.

The floors trembled as the next train arrived, and he smiled as he brought his bare hands up to touch his husband's heart.

-/-

 **Bolshoi Theatre, Moscow, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic**

 **February 1919**

The crowd milled in the halls as the concert let out at intermission, pockets of people chatting, discussing, debating, their voices filling the high, vaulted ceilings.

John headed towards the washroom, acutely aware that he had been watched from the moment he had arrived and sat down. If he was going to be confronted – as he'd expected he would be – it was going to be on his terms.

He took his gloves off and washed his hands, careful not to let the feeling overcome him; water was a difficult vehicle for their kind to handle – its particles, its chemicals, all the material it absorbed as it was processed. It could be a strong conveyor, but this particular tap was manageable, ice cold and nearly clear; he'd learned long ago to compress any overwhelming reactions to his sensitive sense of touch.

The door swung shut behind him, yet when he glanced up into the mirror there was no one there.

He turned, his spine stiffening as an animal realizes its hunter is in proximity.

Moriarty smiled.

"Good evening, Johnny. Shh! Don't make a _sound_ –" He sprang forward suddenly, pushing the fingers of his impeccably gloved hands into John's mouth, nearly down his throat. John coughed, throwing him off and into the tiled wall, a cool and gel-like sensation crawling down the back of his throat.

"There!" Moriarty straightened his cravat. "That was all that needed to be done, darling."

"Don't call me that." John spat, wiping at his mouth. "What the hell did you do?"

"Nothing that should concern you overtly. You might hurt yourself. We wouldn't want that, would we?"

A great feeling expanded in John's throat then, as if he was being choked from the inside out, a strange force squeezing tighter and tighter; yet he had no need to breathe, and the reflex became more bizarre than threatening.

He coughed into his hand and felt something splatter against the fine material of his gloves. He glanced down into his palm, seeing a writhing, _alive_ mass of black conglomerated substance.

Without another thought he leapt forward, grasping Moriarty by the jaw and smearing his glove against his mouth. The other man kept his teeth clamped shut, but John already knew, as he did, that contact was enough.

"Sherlock was right." John grit out, slamming Moriarty's head back against the wall, cracking the tile. "You're one of them."

"The Khylsts get so lively, dear." Moriarty said, laughing, his teeth black. "You're quite vanilla though, I'm not sure what they'd do with you—"

John grabbed him by the lapel and threw him out the window, following the man down into the snowy street below.

They collided before they hit the ground, the impact of John's body forcing them both downwards. He followed the natural motion and struck, forcing Moriarty's arms behind him and landing a rain of strong punches to the other man's back, kidneys, grabbing his hair and slamming his face headfirst into the pavement.

"Fucking _Khylst_ —" He ground out, huffing against the massive weight gathering in his chest. Whatever it was, he could deal with it later.

Moriarty laughed against the snow, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the slush.

"I told you, it's too late. Kill me, darling. It won't change anything."

"What do you mean?"

"You know as well as I do. You can feel it – the dark thing inside you, weighing you down."

John grunted, flinching inwardly against the sinking, squirming mass that writhed underneath his skin. It was a feeling unlike anything he'd ever felt before, something dark and evil burrowing its way through his body, and he knew he was helpless to stop it. Moriarty took advantage of the moment and brought both arms together, elbowing John in the sternum, the force of the impact shoving him backwards.

John collapsed on his back in the snow, gasping against the dark thing that wormed its way deeper and deeper. He couldn't move – why couldn't he move?

Moriarty leaned over him, smiling, his teeth bloodied and black as he let his saliva drip down onto his face. He leaned down, grasping John's chin in his ungloved grip, the touch sending him spiraling into the void, the darkness, nothing, there was nothing, nothing…

"Tell our dear Sherlock I say hello." Moriarty smiled. "You'll see me again." He said, blowing a kiss at him. "Until then, Johnny."

John could only listen as the footsteps faded away, impotent rage and helplessness washing through him, buffering him into blackness, the hollow call of silence, the nothing that lay behind the veil…

What else could he do? He opened his mouth, and screamed.

-/-

 **Molensteeg, Amsterdam, Kingdom of the Netherlands**

 **March 1919**

John sighed, a deep breath in and out. A hand came up to wipe at the stain at the corner of his lip.

"Thanks."

Sherlock hummed, letting his hand fall to John's chest. They stared out the window beside the bed together, down into the street, curtains rising and falling around women as they stepped up onto the little platforms in the windows, dressed as a fantasy, advertising whatever dream the nearest passing man might have.

"Which one do you want?" Sherlock asked, laying his head on John's shoulder. They'd left the window open despite the spring chill, and neither had bothered dressing, not since Sherlock had climbed through the window the night before.

John didn't remember much of that night, or the following day. He'd managed to drag himself to the flat from the train station, exhausted, his last conscious act being to draw the curtains before collapsing on the bed. It had been days since he'd last eaten, nearly a week and a half since he'd fled Safonovo, unable to return to Moscow, and unable to surrender to Denikin; if he did, he'd have been executed, thoroughly, by people who knew how on both sides.

The dreams had been terrible; nothing but blackness, a great void opening before him, no light, no love, no warmth. He had been abandoned into himself, cast downwards forever into an unending, primal pit of nothingness. It had only been broken when he felt the deep sensation of blood on his lips and the dark, immediate reaction as he latched onto whatever was offering it.

By the time he'd returned to himself, Sherlock was leaning over him, wearing a devastated, grim expression, one he hadn't seen often and never wanted to see again, and he'd kissed him, if only to make it go away.

John chuckled, watching as a blonde woman disappeared behind heavy red drapes. "What makes you think I want any of them?"

"Nothing in particular. It's been a while since you've had a woman."

He frowned. "And…you think I want to? Why?"

"You've had a death defying experience." Sherlock drawled, a little blood drunk, lazy with food and sex, leaning in as John carded a hand through his hair. "Perhaps it's reminded you of all you've missed out on."

"I wouldn't say I missed out exactly. Where is all this coming from, love? Do _you_ want one?"

He scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous." Then, after a moment: "I don't want you to have any regrets."

"I'm not dead, Sherlock."

"But you almost were." His mate said, bringing his head up to glare at him. "Due to our own errors in judgment. Due to the fact that we sacrificed each other at the altar of duty, what we felt we owed the world. Mark me now: I will not do it again. Do you understand? Not even if we get into another bloody war, which already seems inevitable."

"It does?"

"Please." He rolled his eyes. "We hardly solved all the baggage of the last one. Mankind is nothing if not predictable. We'll reach the crisis point of emerging geopolitics soon enough."

"What if Mycroft—"

"Mycroft can go fuck himself." Sherlock bit out and John raised his eyebrow at the crassness; he was quite upset, more-so than he was letting on. "And the whole world can go with him."

"Sherlock, I know you're upset—"

"Of _course_ I'm upset!" His mate snarled, rising out of his arms to sit on the edge of the bed, looking out the window down into the narrow street. "Moriarty got to you, John. I will never forgive myself for that."

"But I'm alright. I could handle myself…" He started, but his voice died out at the withering glance his husband gave him.

"How, exactly, is being found unresponsive in the snow outside of the Bolshoi handling yourself? What if he comes back?"

John paused; Sherlock knew he and Moriarty had faced off in Moscow, but he wasn't aware of the details. John himself wasn't entirely sure of what had happened – he knew whatever Moriarty had done involved his training with the Khylsts, but he'd had to make his escape before his research had been complete, and so he was left with best guesses and suspicions.

Sherlock would be better off without knowing – at least, not until John had a solid answer for what was happening. As soon as this was over, when they left to go wherever it was that was after here, he would tell him.

"I'll be with you." John answered firmly, and Sherlock made a concentrated effort to not react, Moriarty's words echoing through his mind.

 _'I'll do it when you're together.'_

He reached out over the bond, and felt John respond. There was love there, trust, a depth of the centuries of knowing each other down to their very cores.

They sat there on the tiny bed, looking down into the street below. Sherlock reached out, grasping John's hand in his. A cool breeze brushed through the night air, and John gripped his hand back, just as tightly.

"Together." Sherlock said.

The moon hung over the city, the stacked chimneys, the sleeping world. Women stoof in the windows, couples milled in the streets; people were living, going about their evening, unknowing, concerned with themselves and their lives.

"Together." John agreed.

The two sat beside each other, and witnessed it all unfold below.

-/-

 **Thanks for the corrections everyone - I've fixed the formatting.**

 **And thank you all for sticking with this tale as it unfolded - I hope it is one you find both rewarding and engaging, no matter if it's your first time reading or if you come back again. Let me know if you'd like this story to continue; I do intend to add a few extra scenes from the past that I either cut out or couldn't find a place for.**


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